Dance on your Grave
by juliasejanus
Summary: Continues on from To Dance Again Alex gets drawn back in the world of shadows and lies and a freelance operative.
1. Chapter 1

Once a whore always a whore. Once a spy always a spy.

Alex was well versed in both the oldest and second oldest professions. He had split his life into two incarnations, as Alex Rider where he lost himself in spying, then sex which was just a game for Misha and reinvented himself as Sasha Makarov, dancer, lover, whore and now assassin. Sasha was a player of the game of life and all its facets, the only difference between then and now, was that he was in control of what he did and who he worked for. After loosing Manfred he had been drawn back piece by piece into work as a freelance operative, even if he was primarily a dancer. He was in Moscow for a fundraising event for the Bolshoi. Perfect cover for his other assignment. There were hundreds of guests tonight and he had picked his two marks, one victim and one stooge.

Alex was not surprised by his occasional, but very lucrative return to 'cleaning'. His best friend in the whole world was Paul McAlaster, who on paper was a minor hood running clubs and whores; but if you scratched the surface and he was one of the best go-to men in the business. Whatever you wanted or needed he could point you in the right direction, for a modest fee, of course. The man had coaxed the Scorpia trained freelance back to his bad old ways. Dancing always came first, but that also provided excellent cover as guest principal artist for a major ballet company, which meant that during his bi-annual tours or other guest appearances, if Alex was in town he could squeeze in some other work. It had been as a courier at first, delivering goods and messages. One bad situation, where he had been a driver for a friend of Paul's, had resulted in him killing the five thugs sent to send a message. He had felt no remorse as he shot all of them effortlessly. Paul had then offered him professional contracts. Tonight was his second hit, weeks of carefully planning. The act of killing, it was as if he was a marionette, a puppet on string, moving to someone else commands, only to wake with a corpse and need to clean up, get out and get back to where ever Sasha Makarov was meant to be. The thrill was escaping, he remembered that well from years ago.

Truth was a hot commodity and at fourteen Alex had learned you only surrendered the bare minimum of information to fit the facts as you saw fit. He had never told anyone at the Bank about Yassen's deathbed declaration of love. Eighteen months later, when left high and dry in Miami, Alex had let the Feds, cops and social workers think he was just a broken teen trained as a pet, who got passed around for favours. Mikhail's plan for the removal of the younger Cortez brother had been beautifully executed, paving the way for the Russian's retirement and Alex's return to normal life in California with the Pleasures. Only Edward and Liz had passed on taking back their wayward foster son. The consensus of concerned adults at the time had been to send the out-of-control, ex-teen agent to boarding school. Like that was ever on the cards after Point Blanc Academy. Alex had run so fast, his trainers had practically caught fire.

In reality, he had worked as a partner for Mikhail and had tortured, killed and maimed as during their five glorious months together. He had also acted as a raven on occasion. He had loved Misha and the life without limits. The teenager had partied hard enough to get addicted to the ever-present copious amounts of drugs. Alex had no sympathy for any of their targets, who had been corrupt cops, drug dealers and greedy, unscrupulous politicians. After Jacks death, the fifteen year old had achieved perfect disassociation as he felt no guilt whatsoever over the demise of Julius and Rahzim.

As part of his life in New York, Alex had taken acting lessons. Art is life and he became a convert to the Stanislavski method. Maria had been wily enough to see through his masks, but there he had found friends, a sort of family and as much emotional support as he could manage. His one chance of normal had been Manfred, a man who had understood him and provided support and understanding for Alex's fractured psyche. The ex-spy had made the mistake of falling in love. All consuming, unconditional love, which had led to full devastating heart break and grief. In pain and anger, Alex to sworn he would never make that mistake again. Only he had and Talia had driven a knife into his heart. Now he was changing direction, to become cold, emotionless and untouchable.

…..

The Director of the Bolshoi observed the American enigma, as the twenty-five year old networked effortlessly and was currently in a heated discussion, in French, with Captain Dima Ivanov. School friends from an exclusive academy in Grenoble, but neither talked about their time there with strangers and both clammed up if anyone inquired. Grennady Titiv had asked about the school from hell, as Sasha called it, and Dima's demeanour had coldly morphed into professional mode as a career state security officer when he stated that to know he needed Alpha level clearance. What had happened at that school? Whatever it was it had made the two men close as brothers. Aleksandr Makarov only appeared to truly relax with Dima, the elusive ex-president Boris Kiriyenko or his ex-girlfriend Alia Uslana. He observed as Alexsandr got a predatory look on his face when he spotted the TV producer of Arts Weekly, a man whom the ballet star was having an on-off affair with. Maxim Lukov fit the bill as older dominant, one that was married, and was attending tonight's event without his wife.

Within a metre of his mark, Alex kneeled down to tie his shoelace. With a cough, the poison dart was delivered via a short plastic straw concealed by his right hand as he politely covered his mouth. The straw was palmed into the pocket of his trousers as he stood. The mark barely twinged as Alex stood and made a b-line for his patsy. Tonight, would be spent with this oaf slobbering over his dick, delivering disgusting sloppy kisses and never quite hitting the right spot when he fucked. C'est la vie.

Part of a stash of goodies left in a safe house, formerly used by Yassen Gregorovich; the capsule of poison was timed to degrade in approximately forty minutes, delivering a neurotoxin causing heart failure. Biodegradable and almost completely undetectable apart from a small thorn-like puncture wound. The data stick of Yassen's money, resources and diary had been passed onto Alex by Misha. A stash visited on his last visit to France in December.

Alex moved like a cat between the throng of party goers and thought of happier more pleasurable activities to attain a full erection, to give Maxim the impression he was hot and horny enough for a quick exit, a fumble in the awaiting limo and a night of fucking. Helped alone by Maxim consuming a fistful of Viagra to keep up with his much younger lover. Exit stage left, before Alphonso Martinelli dropped dead and earned Alex a cool three quarters of a million Euros; for taking out a man at the Kremlin, while protected by Presidential maximum security and making it look like natural causes.

…

A bleary eyed Sasha Makarov made it to practice to see two FSB officers waiting for him at his locker, to take him in for questioning. The sudden death at the Kremlin was being investigated, all attendees were giving statements.

In the building on Lubiyanka Square, Alex acted pensive and evasive, when asked about his movements the night before, only confirming an assignation with an unnamed guest. He knew that Maxim would have lied through his teeth, feigning ill heath as an excuse for his early departure. Only Alex would tell the truth, a piece at a time, as the previous evening he had listened to Dima's disapproving monologue over his choice of a married male lover, that the esteemed director of the Bolshoi knew about the fling and the fact the driver of limousine was ex-army and who had witnessed Alex give the sad old fuck a blow job in the back of the car. After the designated bad cop got heavy, Alex would crack and blab about how he loved Maxim and had wanted a proper goodbye before leaving for England in two days; playing the part of fucked in the head submissive. He had read his file at the FSB, his copy provided by Joe Canterbury, hacker extraordinaire. The document was almost a verbatim copy of the CIA counterpart, which painted the picture of a psychologically compromised heterosexual young man engaging in homosexual affairs with older dominant, often violent, partners, fuelled by deep self-hatred. Thank God for the CIA profile based on the assessment by Tamara Knight stating fourteen year old Alex was 100% into girls; helped along by his 'poor little victim' act in Miami in January 2003. On some level the pain and humiliation was welcome, as he did feel a mountain of survivor's guilt over Jack.

"I can't tell you. He's married, respectable. It's only a rebound fling, anyway. I'm going back to London. You know I'm performing at Covent Garden next weekend." Alex looked miserably at his feet. "Please don't tell Boris. He thinks being queer was a phase I've grown out of. I tried to be straight, but Talia is engaged to that oil magnet, Zulyakov. That's why I left Novosibirsk. It was a complete mess, easier to walk away. She wants kids and I don't, won't can't… my birthday gift to myself at 18 was a vasectomy. Plenty of kids in the world who need a good home with no need to pass on any of my suspect genetic code." Alex had lived with Tatiana Bodganovskaya for nearly two years and had loved every moment with the wickedly funny, occasionally cruel, bi-sexual prima ballerina. He covered for her girlfriends, they had shared threesomes and had started to discuss marriage. His confession of being sterile had been the beginning of the end as she looked for and had found a suitable husband and father for her planned two children. He gave that marriage three years tops before she moved on, happy with a generous settlement for future financial security.

The fist of the older heavier built interrogator, slammed on the table. "No more games, Sasha. Who were you with last night?"

"You already know who I was with. Dimitry Ivanov will have told you. Technically, it's not a crime to sleep with a man, we're both adults. But, if I tell you, it could ruin him. He does not deserve that. So, what that he's in the closet." Alex said angrily.

Then came the stick and the pathetic carrot. "Tell us or you'll be charged with obstructing an official investigation and neither your American passport, nor your having friends in high places will save you." The man softened "We know you are only acting out. Your boyfriend has form. He's not been so nice to his former toys. You've been lucky you're leaving before he broke your heart."

Alex put his head on the table, closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. "I've been having an affair with Maxim Lukov for just over six months. Our affair started after I was on his show to promote the Bolshoi's refurbishment. We fuck when I'm in Moscow. Every third weekend, I visit Boris and then take it up the arse for the Producer of Arts Weekly on Channel One. We normally go to the Hyatt by the Airport, but last night we fucked in his martial bed and on his sofa and in his shower 'cause his wife is in Paris." Alex then sat back up, staring straight ahead, face emotionless, and then pushed up the sleeves of his shirt and pulled off the bandana from around his neck to show off the darkening bruises along his lower arms and around his throat. "He likes it rough. Get forensics in, these handprints should be a perfect match for Maxim. You can get DNA from my clothes, if you want."

It had taken a few weeks to get the TV producer to play really rough. As Alex planned out his hit to the last detail.

The cop looked old and worn, when confronted with a kid who played out his emotional turmoil for all to see. "Any other injuries we should be aware of Sasha."

Alex then stood up and took off his shirt to show off the deep bruising from punches to his stomach and ribs and welts across his back. "He used lube and condoms. I've not got internal injuries." If Alex had not been so intent on playing a sad little fuck, he could have laughed out loud when both security officers swore and then the older tough guy asked to the mirrored observation window for a doctor to attend.


	2. Chapter 2

Colonel Alexei Kulan was heading the investigation into the assassination of Alphonso Martinelli, International Financier and known Money launderer for half the cartels and most of the arms dealers on the planet; also a heavy campaign supporter of the current Russian president. The Russian President, who was wanting conclusive results and a suspect yesterday.

The initial pathology and forensics reports were on the table, as was the on site interviews and analysis.

The CIA had passed on intel that the assassination method was a type used by Yassen Gregorovich in 1998 on the Haitian Head of Police. Simple capsule design, hand crafted in a coating that dissolved on contact with skin, containing a Russian made toxin which absorbs on skin contact. The capsule was delivered into the back of the Bankers hand by close proximity. Projected time of contamination was within the previous 12 hours, more likely within four hours of death. No known assassins were in Moscow, only one with possible similarities on file was an associate of Gregorovich, Mikhail Brezkin, whose whereabouts since 2003 were unknown.

The fund raising event had been attended by over 600 guests, supported by 300 security and 150 staff, all vetted.

"Brezkin has a connection with that dancer Makarov. Wasn't he brought in for an interview? Can we do a follow up?"

The analyst started with a review of the facts. "We have Makarov leaving the Kremlin with his lover, Maxim Lukov at 21:37; 55 minutes before Martinelli collapsed. Lukov spoke to Martinelli, a brief introduction. Makarov did not. He spoke to two journalists, and concentrated on meeting and greeting the Bolshoi board and sponsors. The affair between Makarov and Lukov has been on going for six months. In that time period, Makarov has danced at various guest appearances all over the globe after he left Novosibirsk Ballet last October. We asked if he had seen or heard from Brezkin since 2003 and Aleksandr confessed to looking for him over the past three years and that he would continue their association if Misha was on the scene. After 9 years, I can say Aleksandr Makarov is very emotionally compromised by what that man did to him."

The analyst had genuinely been surprised by the transcript in the interrogation file, the twenty five year old had queried 'So, you're asking about Misha. I can only conclude there was an incident at the Kremlin last night. Considering my past history, I can discount megalomaniacs posturing about either ending or ruling the world, which leaves terrorist threat,unexplained death and/or assassination and finally and most disturbing, because Grief's abomination has escaped. I can positively state it was the real Dimitry Ivanov at the soiree last night. 100%.' Suspect clearly distressed about the doppelgänger possibility. "Not a clone then. Now I get the whole getting dragged in by Igg and Ook. Well, "Hello, Scorpia trained Assassin/ known foreign intelligence operative" here. Fuck, right. Can I request you leave off the waterboarding and skip straight to drugging the hell out of me to get your answers? Or am I here for the full works.. sleep depravation, stress positions etc etc etc up to full electro shock, mock executions and murdering my nearest and dearest. Been there done that. Are you formally charging me or am I about to disappear? Do you need me to write a suicide note or a full confession? Get me a pen and paper. Whatever, get on with it'

"Makarov gave verbal consent for more aggressive interrogation techniques to be used. SP-117 was administered, so all responses from this point are under the influence of a strong de-inhibitor. We questioned him again, all answers showed no change in response. He confirmed he has not met or conversed with Brezkin nor Martinelli. He was aware of Martinelli's connections to Dieter Sprintz from an article in the Guardian newspaper printed last December (cross reference to the Point Blanc Academy file); but was unaware of Martinelli's connections with General Alexei Sarov. He does have a long standing close friendship with Paul McAlastor, his former pimp in London. That is how Makarov described their relationship. Confirmed it was not sexual in nature, when asked specifically. We then questioned him about Yassen Gregorovich and the interviewee stated MI6 SO confirmed him as liquidating Ian Rider, uncle of Makarov, then described witnessing Gregorovich kill an operative at Port Tallon, the attempted assassination of his former foster father in Spain and the assassin's death in 2001 in London. No training with this type of assassination given at Malagosto, only a very basic overview of poisons nothing specific, no detailed knowledge of neurotoxins, and no knowledge of the death of Hernado Valez in Haiti. When directly asked if he killed Martinelli, he said who, but shook his head. Unprompted he described killing Julius Grief, before falling asleep. A second dose of SP-117 was not administered on the recommendation of the doctor. The doctor kept him under observation for three hours here until he came around and then he was transferred to hospital for further observation."

"Why hospital? Did he have a reaction to the serum?"

"No, Lukov beat the crap out of him as part of their supposed consensual sexual relationship. Captain Ivanov and Grennady Titov both viewed the relationship as destructive, with an escalation in violence as the affair went on. Lukov confirmed as a sadist and has in the past been under surveillance for anti-social behaviour, dating to 1983-1992." The younger intelligence officer then broke the bad news. "The doctor believes Makarov is of high risk of self harm or regressing into self medication. He is also due to fly to London the day after tomorrow."

"Has a detailed analysis of Makarov been done? Do we have a suspected known assassin?"

"The doctor has recommended that Makarov be hospitalised for psychiatric evaluation. The affair follows patterns of self destructive behaviour noted from his past relationships with Brezkin and Manfred Schnagel. Possibly in need to personality modification due to severe psycho-sexual programming by Brezkin. Nothing to suggest that Makarov has killed since Cairo. Initial analysis of movement around the target at the party was not helped by the limited amount of video and the vast amount of contacts and mingling. The puncture wound on the back of the hand meant a hand shake or brush past was most likely method of delivery. In a room where at least sixty individuals who had a past history with the late banker and are all suspects. The closest Makarov had been to the target was two people away, when his attention at that time had been focused on his lover. A waiter's statement had noted Makarov had briefly knelt down to tie his shoe lace, behind another guest." The analyst shook his head as recalled the detail of the ex-MI6 operative's file, which had revealed the horror story of a teenager who had broken under torture and had continued to have sado-masochist relationships with dominant partners, both male and female, all reflecting that pain was the man's means of control over his deep psychological issues. "No, the conclusion of initial analysis is that he is not our assassin. Intelligence from the French has highlighted an unknown operative for the assassination of Mohammed Khan in Alacon last December. Completely different MO, Khan was tortured and mutilated while still alive, and then dismembered post-mortem. His six member security team all shot. Ballistics showed no known matches. Not enough information for cross-comparisons to even suggest this is the same contractor. Both Khan and Martinelli had considerable security as high risk targets. The contract on Khan was for one million dollars US. There has been no intel on an open contract on Martinelli, though he has allegedly double-dealed both the North Koreans and the Shanghai Triads."

"I take it Makarov was the only person interviewed with truth serum?"

The analyst nodded. "We are due to re-interview Lukov this afternoon. He has contacted a lawyer. His initial statement was supplied this morning, stating he felt unwell and that he was alone at home. No mention of he and Makarov leaving together, sharing the limousine or having a sexual relationship. We searched his apartment and found used condoms, took semen swabs from three rooms and the bedding had blood and semen confirmed. Awaiting a cross match to Aleksandr Makarov."

"Boris Kiriyenko and General Alexandrov will both have our blood if this gets into the press. Put a security black out on Makarov's arrest. Unofficially, make Lukov a suspect in a pedophile investigation, what's the current Interpol one called? Get his home computers checked out, if you haven't already confiscated them, do it as a matter of priority."

….

Alex woke up in a private bed at Moscow Central Clinical Hospital. There was a drip in his arm and he felt the familiar aftereffects of truth serum. Not bothering to call the attendants, he sat up to leave but promptly vomited over himself and his bedding. Boris Kiriyanko was stood in the doorway and bellowed "Room 213 needs attention." Before looking closely at his ill friend. "The paramedics say you have been under the influence of drugs unknown, only you were admitted here after a five hour visit at Lubiyanka Square. I understand vomiting is common after effect from questioning using SP-117." The old man shrugged and smiled "Our esteemed current president is looking for the bogeyman. I have bet my friend General Alexandrov, it was the Israeli's who ordered the hit. They have top class assassins at all levels, in all cities and an open policy of removing all threats to their national security in the most efficient of ways. I also tried to bet that publicly, the report will state Martinelli died of a heart attack. Few if any will mourn that sharks passing. Alexandrov would not take any money for that observation."

The nurses stripped their patient and all the upper vomit covered bedding and then washed the patient before fully changing the bedding. Boris noted the bruises and scab covered welts littering the dancer's body with resignation. When they were alone again, the ex-president sat down to continue his one sided conversation, "I take it you agreed to the injection administered by those fine interrogators at State Security." After Alex gave a terse nod of confirmation, the old man poured out a glass of water for the invalid. "I will call Stravenkov to tell him you are not at fault for being here. Although you have been a fool. That TV producer was not worthy of your affections. I fear that if you are fond of him, it would be better to cut all contact. The FSB do not take well to being lied to so blatantly. He will be raked over the coals for his stupidity."

The young man in the bed covered his face and croaked "Who told you and how long have you known about my gross stupidity."

"Your friends at the Bolshoi worry about you, little thief. I worry about you. Be thankful, you show some sense and are going back to London for a while. Move on, move forward, do not let a woman's fickleness drive you to self-destruction. I fear she may have put you off the fairer sex altogether."

Alex sipped the water before trying to explain his unfortunate habit of shitty relationships to a man still in love with his wife who had died in 1998. "I cannot blame Talia. Her biological clock was ticking… she was planning to retire next season. I still have a great relationship with Alia and thought Talia and I would remain friends. Alas she has been a nightmare. We had two years of mischievous fun. Do not be under the impression that I was either good nor dutiful in Siberia. We had fantastic parties and I am a very decedent westerner, born and bred. I was getting restless anyway. She would have insisted we stay there even without the problem over my sterility. This business with Maxim was never about love.. or happiness … or anything positive. It wasn't even good sex. I know you read my admission papers. It was about pain… sometimes it's easier to make the pain a physical thing. Do you understand that?"

"No I have never liked pain, physical nor emotional; but I have never suffered to the extent you have." The old man held the young man's hand for comfort, for company and for understanding that after being broken by Rahzim, there was no possibility of understanding how this young man kept on living with the pain he carried. "You must rest. 48 hours is recommended. I will change your flights, call the Royal Ballet to say you have stomach flu and I promise to tell Stravenkov or his child-bride the truth. It will be an interesting conversation as that man hates state security with a passion." Boris stood and kissed the young man in parting so like and yet so different from Vladimir Sarov. "I will get Kolya to pack your belongings. Rest, no distractions for two days. Try to be good."

Alex was not surprised that Dima did not visit. The American dancer knew that visitors would need clearance as he was still under investigation. As he lay in the darkened room, he wondered what would happen to Maxim. Even billionaires had reason to fear Russian Federal State Security and until he got on that plane, Alex could well end up in a gulag, if he was lucky or a state psychiatric clinic if he was not. Thank God, for his training to deal with truth serums and lie detectors.


	3. Chapter 3

Nicola Burgess had travelled the Moscow to London route a thousand times as a senior steward for British Airways. She had served politicians, actors, models and numerous celebrities. Sasha Makarov was not the first ballet star to be bumped up to first class. He had been so pale and drawn this morning, even so he had thanked them all profusely for their kindness and the wonderful generosity of the Airline. He had sat down belted up and promptly fallen straight asleep and had not stirred as breakfast and refreshments were served. She had read the gossip page in yesterday's Moscow News and its reporting that the man's stomach flu had actually been hospitalisation after an alleged suicide attempt. Months of articles about the former star of the Novosibirsk Ballet after he had suddenly left the company mid season, last October; when he'd broke off his engagement with the diva Titania Bogdanovskaya. That bitch had been mauled by the Russian tabloids for two timing Sasha with that oil magnet, her current fiancee. The flight attendant had crossed paths with the prima ballerina two years ago and could clearly recall the nightmare passenger when she'd travelled to London. The gossip columnist yesterday had also reported on Makarov's heavy drinking after the death of his former love, Manfred Schnagel, when he had returned home to New York to his supposed father, Vladimir Stravenkov. Though there had been doubts printed about the validity of that conjecture, but the gossip about that émigré general had also died down. Facts the ballet dancer himself had neither confirmed nor denied. Whenever asked Sasha smiled and stated he was the adopted son of Maria Makarova and his birth parents were irrelevant. Natalie loved Russian gossip, reporting on opera and ballet stars was always more classy than soap or reality tv stars back home. The video posted on Facebook of an argument at the Bolshoi had given only the barest of details. Asking her Russian friends had confirmed that most of them now regarded Sasha Makarov as the bastard son of General Sarov, but no one printed that knowledge as fact. Mr. Makarov had a very interesting past and she could not wait to read his biography, if and when one was written.

Alex woke with a start and noted his throat was dry and sore, made worse by the air conditioning. He was draped in a blanket, which had been placed over him by the kind and thoughtful attendant. He pressed the call button and hoped he had time for a hot drink as he was hitting the ground running with publicity and press for the Royal Ballet as soon as he landed.

He automatically started to speak in Russian and then back tracked "Sorry, completely hard wired for Russian and I must start thinking in English again. Can I please have a hot water and lemon or chamomile tea? I still feel a bit nauseous, so much for the doctors promising I'd be right as rain after two days bed rest."

Nicola smiled and then answered in her excellent Russian "Can I suggest a ginger ale and some crackers? I can promise they really helped when I had chronic morning sickness."

Alex shifted around and fully appraised the woman "Nice accent, very cultured, I wish mine was as good. Vladimir laughs himself silly every time I talk to him as I've developed a god awful Siberian accent. He thinks it's terrible. Calls me gulag boy. I wish I spoke like you. Maybe I should take elocution lessons to stop sounding like a factory worker." He relaxed and closed his eyes, even after all this time he automatically changed his accent, mannerisms and personality to fit in, to act like a native. "I'll go with the ginger ale and crackers. I had a couple of spoons of cold borsch at three o'clock this morning, but it tasted really bad. Then again that could have been Kolya's cooking."

As she made up the tray she wondered on just how completely Russian, the American was. Then again his adoptive mother was Russian. He had probably immersed himself in the culture during his three years there. It was strange. She had spent three years at Moscow University and had could not remotely pass for a Russian, but this man could.

With sunglasses on, the ballet dancer was met and escorted by airport staff for a quick exit, documented by the airport photographer. A car with driver was waiting for transfer straight to central London. The Royal Ballet had pulled out all the stops for him to arrive for the press conference and interviews arranged to publicise their guest artiste. He was teaching a series of masterclasses as well as performing. In the car he turned his phone on for the first time in three days to trawl through the hundreds of messages. Most were simple get well soon missives from friends and co-workers. There was a long series from both Luci and Vladimir. He looked at his watch and called home.

After three rings he left a message stating he would be free to talk this evening. It was four AM in New York, everyone would be in bed.

The commute took just over an hour until he stepped out of the car at the Dorchester, the chosen location for the press conference and three scheduled interviews. In the mess of the past three days, Alex had not read who his interviews were for or with. He had only briefly noted his agent in New York had been dealing with Boris, Vladimir and Natalie the Press Officer at the Royal Ballet. Ludmilla Schimdt had handled all Sasha Makarov's bookings and contracts since his first appearance at the Bolshoi, three years ago. She was wonderful and charming, but Grennady Titov called the woman "Stalina".

Natalie Stroma was waiting for the arrival of the new guest principal, because of the stories in the Russian Press, today's event was well attended by both broadsheets, magazines and tabloids, proving there was no such thing as bad publicity when hiring the bad boy ballet star.

The man was tall, slim and casually dressed. She noted dressed in Italian designer cashmere high necked sweater, scarf and jeans matched with blue canvas espadrilles. Hiding behind sunglasses, he looked washed out and tired, but he smiled wanly and greeted the press officer with a brief "Hi, Natalie. Good to see you again."

"Good morning, Sasha. Welcome to the Dorchester. We're all set up on the second floor. Please follow me."

In the elevator, "How are you really? Boris was quite insistent that we not over tax you."

"Right, you're on first name terms with his excellency, the former president of the Russian federation. Should I be worried? Are all my actions going to be reported to him?" Alex smiled. "Don't let his old grandfather demeanor fool you, he's a wily old fox. He's been a fantastic friend over the last few days, so I really should cut him some slack."

The Director of Ballet, Graeme Rawlings, watched as Sasha Makarov pulled out a packet of nicotine gum and got his substitute fix. He would have been tempted to cancel the contract except for the intervention of Boris Kiriyenko. He could have weathered the shit storm from Ms. Schmidt and Valdimir Stravenkov, but the former Russian president had spoken in excellent English about Aleksandr's lover creating trouble by denying their relationship. That darling Sasha had fully cooperated with the security services and complete rest was needed. That was the real grain of truth. Sasha Makarov had spent two days in hospital to get over what the secret police had done to him to get him to betray his lover.

"Esteemed Director, I am so sorry about being late. Boris assured me you were very understanding about the unexpected delay. Firstly, the article printed in the Moscow News was lies, but I'm quite used to that. I'm just glad I was actually allowed to leave this morning, considering the events at the Kremlin three days ago. It's all hotting up to be an international incident over that dead Italian banker. I did not even meet the guy and I was questioned twice. The whole situation was not helped by the fact my now very ex-lover denied that we left to spent the night together and that our last six months as lovers never happened. The Asshole lied to the FSB. Shit! I thought they were hard and heavy on me, but they've come down on Maxim like a tonne of bricks. Boris told me his apartment was searched, boxes of stuff confiscated and they are going through his financial records. The man was no saint but WTF." He closed his eyes and shivered as he thought about the threats and the very professional interrogation. "They threatened that my American Passport meant nothing. Fuck, even I'm not stupid enough to out right lie to the federal agents. I tried to protect him. They knew precisely who left with who. We left in the same limo. Hell, we had sex in the back of the limo. I know too much information." Alex paused "I'll be straight with you. I'm not coping with all this. I promise to see my shrink and work through this. I always thought Vladimir was exaggerating about the KGB… now, I've see it up front. Its fucking terrifying. I was going into a panic attack. The doctor asked if I agreed to medication and next thing I know I'm telling them everything. The medic wrote on my admission papers to the hospital that I needed transferring to a clinic for personality modification for my perversion." Alex put his hand up to his face to cover the sob, then brushing his tears away. "You must forgive me. I'm still so raw." Alex took a deep breath. "OK, to business, I have the medical release documents from the clinic. Do you require a urine sample… it was a stipulation of the contract. I wish to prove I have not used… I'm clean and sober."

Graeme was impressed to see the young man had a lid on his emotions even after such an ordeal and was eager to get to business. "Other contractual requirements can wait until you feel better. Today, we have a short press conference. Then three interviews… Natalie, please tell Sasha our order of business."

The woman reviewed her list "Ballet Magazine, The Sunday Telegraph and the Guardian have requested interviews today with follow on photo shoots next week. I have also received requests from Vogue and Vanity Fair. Those have yet to be agreed."

Alex decided to be brutally bad. "There might need to be a delay on the photos if they want torso shots. Its better if I show you." He knew the injuries were already yellowing and would likely have be gone by next week, but it was fun to let these people think his interrogation had been brutal. He pulled off the scarf and his grey jumper to display the full extent of the beating.

Natalie gasped, almost dropped her clipboard and ran to the ladies room. Graeme did not know where to look. Alex re-dressed and excused himself to urinate and let his colleagues regain their composure.

He exited the bathroom to see Graeme on his iPhone and overhead 'Animals… Its inhuman.. Sorry, I will tell you all later." Alex loved gossip, it was so different when you were controlling the lies with misdirection.

When Natalie reappeared, make-up perfect and fully composed, he still had a sinking feeling and had to ask, "Who's here from the Guardian?"

"A freelance…. Edward Pleasure".

Alex laughed bitterly "And I thought this week could not get any worse!"

"Sorry, is this a problem?" Graeme had also been surprised when a famous investigative journalist requested a private interview. These meet and greet press junkets were normally the reserved of arts correspondents alone.

"Depends if we can both be professional about our shared past history. He was, for a very brief period, my foster father. Our relationship crashed and burned when I was 15. I can't imagine he's here to talk about ballet, dancing or the arts in general. Last piece I read of his was on Dieter Sprintz. It was a bit of a hatchet job." The billionaire financier was not a man Alex would cross.

"Don't worry, Sasha. We have editorial control."

"My past is a horror story, the again most stories of child abuse are. One thing I have kept a lid on by flashing lurid tales of teenage misadventures. Last thing I need is for all the things I avoid and deny to be laid bare for those vultures to pick over. Remember the mantra… survivor not victim. Let's get this over with. Then again, I still have to talk to Vladimir and that is going to be such a fun filled conversation comparing notes on Lubiyanka hospitality."

Time to face the music, the awaiting press were from a mix of British and Russian newspapers and magazines. He looked at his watch, not designer, not bling, just a rather battered and scratched Swatch. A Christmas Present from Luci in 2004, his first Christmas Present in three years; three years since the strange, lonely Christmas with Jack in Chelsea, a first and last for both of them. She normally spent two weeks in Baltimore every year for the holidays. That year, she had gone back to the States just for New Years to visit her family. The American had inadvertently kind of ruined it by talking of the perfection of her childhood and all her family traditions at home. Ian and Alex had ways gone on holiday, either somewhere tropical or skiing. Always active with no carols, no turkey, no mince pies, no egg nog and no christmas cake. A single practical present, as big presents were reserved for Alex's birthday. In 2001, the holidays had crept up, as Alex spent days trying to catch up on school work and Jack worked long hours as a temp. Suddenly, it had been Christmas Eve and there was no tree to decorate, but what was the point, there wasn't any decorations to put on it. Jack gave Alex her usual £40 and Alex gave her a gift token for Monsoon. Envelopes exchanged on Christmas day at lunch time, then an afternoon watching a couple of movies, then sandwiches and crisps. Both of then had been thoroughly miserable. At seven, Jack had phoned home and Alex had gone to his room and listened to her laughter and happiness. That Christmas he had toasted the birth of the Son of God, by drinking the half drunk bottle of vodka that had been in the bathroom cabinet in Ian's room. That Christmas, Alex had discovered self medication was a poor substitute for happiness, but a substitute none the less.

Alex closed his eyes and he could visualise the neat, modern but homely apartment in New Yorks Upper West Side. In mid-December, Vladimir had bought a tree. Cookies had been baked, decorations made by Piotr, Gregori had spent his time trying to pull the tree over, as the toddler used the branches as a tool to stand up or just grabbed the nearest bauble to play with. For the first time Alex was part of a proper family Christmas. He had tried to go it alone two days before Christmas Eve, but the cops had caught him sleeping rough and brought him home. He had mumbled a half hearted apology and been sent to have a shower. It was passed midnight and was technically Christmas day when Luci had handed him a small package.

With a resigned and tired effort at inclusion the thirty year old, ex-ballerina had briefly smiled and turned to go to bed with a parting "Happy Christmas, Cuckoo."

He had opened it, looked at the watch and had burst into tears. Having a full on meltdown had opened Alex's mouth and he talked about his grim past. Telling Luci and Mira the fact this was his first family Christmas, ever. Maria kept to Russian traditions, not the commercialised mess expected by those raised in Britain and America. As a child, Alex had observed but never participated in festivities all across Europe. Ian Rider had really fucked up raising his brother's only child.

Alex took a deep breath and ignored the worried looks from the two Royal Ballet employees. He plastered a smile on his face and entered the arena.


	4. Chapter 4

Nicola fielded the questions like a pro and Alex was affable and sarcastic. None of the questions were intrusive or pushed Alex's buttons. He deflected a few with jokes and others with brashness.

Then came the carefully worded enquiry over his recent hospital stay. Alex sipped water and went for humour. "My fault entirely. I had cooked a batch of stew. It might have been a couple of days too ripe, Maria called leftovers character building. Scrape of the mould and heat it up. It must be a war thing. I swear it wasn't mouldy, but it did give me food poisoning. My friend Dima was my saviour, he got me to hospital after I collapsed. I was really sick. On a drip and very miserable. So, not dramatic or tragic, just a bit stupid."

The next question was fielded from the Telegraph Arts Correspondent, Marc De Winter, who had followed Sasha's career since 2006. "In your planned masterclasses, will you be discussing the influence of Manfred Schnagel on your reimagining of Veshin's lost works and secondly, are you planning a retrospective of Schangel's work at some point?"

Alex had wanted a proper question about dancing, but talking about Manfred always brought all his more recent life choices into sharp relief, when they seemed more like colossal mistakes if you were kind or him actually losing the plot if you weren't. "I'll answer your second question first. As you know in 2009, after I returned from New York I tried to get his dance company off the ground and performing again. Bethany had retired, but the rest of us were game. I wrote to Bernd Schnagel, Manfred's brother and executor of his estate and my request for continued use of our dance company name or any of his choreography was denied. I wrote again six months and then again a year later to get the same response that I was trying to cash in on his legacy and that I could not do justice to his art. Three strikes you're out, I have moved on and I am waiting with baited breath for any of his later works to be performed. There is a whole contemporary ballet which has never been staged, we were still in rehearsals when he passed. It is beautiful, complex and daring; drawing on classical influences in honour of Maria Makarova, my adopted mother and his mentor and friend. So please, start a campaign for its staging. It deserves a premiere. Just don't use my name because you will get a very terse rejection." Alex had the strong suspicion that Bernd blamed him personally for driving Manfred into an early grave. With no mask in place and suddenly facing the adrenaline crash after his flight from Russia, Sasha Makarov looked every inch the tragic figure described in Moscow News. With a wan, smile, Alex continued "So, the planned masterclasses are to be on Russian technique and its evolution in the late 20th and 21st centuries, the differences in styles between different companies and academies and their unique repertoire. As for the influences on my staging of Veshin's Variations, my influences are Graham, Tetley, Tharp, Makarova, Schnagel and Stravenkov. All ballet dancers today are influenced by the first three and I have been lucky enough to dance for Manfred and Vladimir. The very fact these works survived to be staged was due to Maria, she personally tutored me on all Veshin had entrusted her with. I cannot thank the Bolshoi enough. Without the full support of Grennady Titov and Oksana Galinova who took a leap of faith and incorporated these beautiful pieces into their repertoire, Marek Veshin would have remained a mere footnote in the Maransky Theatre's illustrious history." Alex then looked up at Vladimir's friend, "I can recommend the biography of Veshin published in 2008, its very comprehensive. Sadly it's out of print and only available in Russian. If you want, I can lend you my copy, but I want it back. No chance of Vladimir lending you his, he said it was among the best biographies he'd read and it's still on his bedside table. With a young wife and ever growing family, he does not get much time to read, so he probably hasn't finished it yet."

Alex enjoyed talking to the lovely lady from Ballet Magazine, he spoke about missing out on a place at the Royal Ballet School at 11, which Graeme was very interested in hearing all about.

"I'm surprised Grennady didn't tell you about that." Alex smiled wistfully, "So, the housekeeper encouraged me to dance, she sneakily put my lessons through on the housekeeping budget. The weekly ballet class and occasional shows escaped my uncles notice until you guys offered me a place in 1998, when I was eleven. He threw an absolute wobbler when he read that letter. I begged and pleaded to go, but he ignored me and then wrote you guys a snotty rejection letter and told me to stop poncing about as I was going to Brookland Comprehensive. No arguments. Dance lessons then stopped, but I didn't stop dancing. I just got up early and did a bastardised version of class in my bedroom. He never caught on because he was never at home, being such a big shot international banker." With a long drink of water Alex mused "I started to compartmentalise at that point, hiding that part of myself from everyone. It appeared that I was a kid who loved karate, skiing and football, you know proper sports. I kept up with my uncle's grand plan for me growing up to be an exact copy of my father. I never thought I'd ever take lessons again. Tells you how sad my life was, when it was my fucking pimp who encouraged me to take dancing seriously again at 15 and started teaching me what he knew as a washed up dancer. He had trained in Smolensk, but members of Misha's extended family were dissidents and were in internal exile, so he was politically suspect. He told me a talentless fathead got a place at the Kirov School, when his audition had been miles better. So, he slid into crime and by 20 had done his first stretch in prison."

Alex was really tired when the last interview of the day came around. He had been outside to stretch his legs and to smoke a cigarette, as the nicotene gum was next to useless. He re-entered the room to see Graeme chatting to Edward Pleasure. There was tea and sandwiches on the table, and Natalie looked nervously between the dancer and his former foster father.

Over the polite laughter, Alex coughed to impose himself into the conversation. "Just to start the ball rolling, I have no regrets; if I started playing the game of ifs, buts and maybes, I would be a complete basket case. I'm not going to apologise for leaving, but it was already a mess. I was backed into a corner by the inevitability that the Bank would come knocking on the door and then used you guys to blackmail me to do as they asked for continued protection or threaten me with them taking over as full time guardians. Being a whore for Misha was being used, but on my terms; no threats, no blackmail and frankly I stopped giving a shit about my welfare after I crossed paths with Julius again. I fully understand why you did not want me back after Miami. Being nuts and a cokehead was too much for you and Liz. You guys are nice normal people. The decision to send me to military school was really low. After I told you about Julius and Point Blanc. That would have pushed me over the edge, possibly to full psychopath or just into complete paranoia. Did nobody ever think to ask me what I wanted? I learned never to speak up because lets face it, all the adults in my life were just users, abusers and facilitators."

Edward sat down. Putting his digital recorder on the table but not switching it on. "I'm not here about recriminations or going over both our past mistakes. I don't think you read the pieces I wrote after you left. I did an in depth expose of the Russian mafia in America and child prostitution. I would like to do a piece on how you met Misha, because you were very cagey to the DEA Agents and the cops in Florida. You got out. You have kept yourself clean. Worked so hard and driven yourself to achieve goals. I have no idea how you started dancing, but this is a happy ending. You are following your dream. It would be nice to give others in your situation hope, because over the years I have crossed paths with a lot of children being exploited. You can say no, but I have enough to sketch out a story, but you have achieved the near impossible by not just surviving but finding family, friends and your place."

Alex sat down and the tension he'd been holding dissipated. He poured a cup of tea and placed two egg sandwiches on a plate. It was all very civilised. Alex then pressed the record button on the digital recorder. "On the surface I had a perfectly normal upper middle class upbringing, but appearances can be deceptive. When I met Sabina, I was already being abused, blackmailed and I felt I was fading from view. I started drinking three days before I went on holiday with you to Scotland. The self medicating started after I broke my ankle and got burned. They gave me decent painkillers for once. I kept that prescription filled, because you mix codeine with vodka and you don't give a fuck about anything. I was stoned and drunk most of the final term I was at Brookland. By June I was off the painkillers and trying to stop drinking. Then Jack died….."

After he had talked for over an hour, Alex had arranged to meet the next day for a lunch, to continue with the edited highlights of life with Misha.

It had been a long day, He had booked into the Dorchester for the luxury of room service, a bath and the guarantee of twelve hours undisturbed sleep. Laid in a sinfully hot bath, his dinner due to arrive in an hour, Sasha Makarov phoned home.

"Good try at avoiding talking, my little Siberian. I take it Boris was telling me the truth. I know we'll be seeing you in two weeks time, but tell me everything, so I can give Luci a PG version."


	5. Chapter 5

Everything about ballet class; the movement, the music, the repetition, was soothing with ingrained familiarity, even if he could feel the lingering effects from the fact this was his first exercise in three days. The instructions in English, not Russian not German and not French. In November, December and January he had been a guest star in Paris and then Stuttgart. After talking to Vladimir, then later with Luci last night, Sasha was strangely homesick and wanted to see them so much and could not wait for this two month long engagement to be over, as he had a month planned in New York. At class, their were no longings, no recriminations, no memories, just him and his body.

The Ballet Master, Mark, had greeted him with surprise as Sasha was supposedly resting. "Three days missed class, is beyond the pale. If I had done that with Maria, she would have whipped my legs raw for not actually being dead. Myra Longbridge missed class for four days, off sunning herself somewhere tropical and Maria told her that she had no place in her studio for lazy bitches. So three days off maximum, unless you can't walk. Vladimir does class everyday, except when injured, even Christmas." Alex had had three days bed rest after open heart surgery, he could have done class then, no problem.

He paid no mind to stripping for a quick wash after class, he'd lost any sense of modesty after Miss Stellenbosch, Yassen and Niles. The bruises were fading into the background, no real ache nor the wonderful sharp sting and lingering throb of impact. All things considered, a small discomfort in a life littered with real agony. The bathroom was busy with two of the soloists who were also changing for other appointments and commitments. Alex noted their chatting had stopped as he washed under his arms, obviously they had taken note of the grey/yellow marks on his wrists from handcuffs, the rings of finger marks on his lower arms and the mottled mess on his back and chest.

Alex was so tempted to be dramatic and state to the crowd that this was nothing compared the beating he received in Quito, when he had pissed blood for days. After, he'd distracted the National Police with a bit of petty theft, letting Misha finish his deal. After a short chase, rather than arrest the street kid, they'd just given him a lesson in life South American style. Ecuador, was one place he had no desire to ever to go back to. Columbia and Mexico were also on that list. Never a dull moment with Misha. Even if you liked living on a knife edge. Misha had got him a doctor who over prescribed ketamine, that stuff was wicked. God, knows what the hell he's talked about when under the influence.

Was life here going to be like returning to Brookland? Whispers and sly looks, as the dancers discussed the new member of the company, one who had attained notoriety in Russia for both technical brilliance and for caustic relationships. Here he was bringing his own repertoire of works to perform as well as several guest performances of the Royal Ballet's catalogue. Critics compared his early performances for Manfred and Vladimir as maverick, with the mix of modern and contemporary and his highly unusual change back to classical ballet, many stating he had been rebelled against Maria's very strict training.

Now he was going to be discussing the past with Edward. He was rehashing things he had not really thought over since, just pushed to the back of his mind. He had done things for Misha without any thought of consequence or conscience. Strange considering the things he had been discussed with Edward were not even the worst bits. He had lived for the moment, for each drink, tablet, fix or orgasm. Just living day to day, moment to moment. Situations where Alex had just gone along with Misha, without worrying about right or wrong. Life had taught Alex that there were only shades of grey, when men like Blunt were as bad as Sarov, as they all thought they were going the right thing. One teenagers life meant nothing, when compared to their big picture. Everyone was expendable and no one was innocent. He had been branded a target through his paternity alone.

It had all been fine, until one day in November 2002, something had changed when they were in Caracas. It was no longer a party, when Alex had started the day with his new breakfast of choice: glass of tequila, a handful of Tylenol and two lines of cocaine. Misha had said enough was enough. Yep that was Alex even today, he was an alcoholic and drug addict. Even now, he could murder a drink. He would pass on the cocaine, but hell those first fixes had overridden all the guilt, nightmares and self-hatred. That chemical high had made Alex, not a carefree teenager, just a person who was a good approximation of functioning.

Alex struggled with his daypack, as he did not have an allocated locker at the rehearsal rooms yet and frankly could not be bothered with organising one. He stood in the hall, waiting for his taxi and telephoned Terrence Pritchard. He really would be pushing doctor patient confidentiality when he told his shrink he enjoyed cleaning up problems for Paul and Misha, it made him feel something other than empty, not excitement, just alive, like he was real. With those thoughts he knew he was out of control and in need of new boundaries, goals and probably his own padded cell.

…

The restaurant was open, light and airy. The ballet dancer moved purposefully with silent footfalls through the tables to the one occupied by Edward Pleasure. It was early enough that only two other tables were occupied. He was underdressed in an eclectic mix of loose clothes reserved for practice, comprising large training trousers with tights underneath, t-shirt, vest, sweatshirt, loose scarf and trainers. His hair un-styled and only damped down when he had washed. Edward was sat in a shirt and jacket, no tie.

Edward looked at the man called Sasha, and tried not to think of the broken boy called Alex. "Good Morning, Sasha. It's good to see you. You must have had a good night's sleep because you look much better."

"The hotel provided an excellent breakfast to welcome me home. Even had black pudding and I haven't eaten that for years. I move into my new apartment later on today, nice place in Grosvenor Square." His home for two months was rent free as he was borrowing the London home of Dieter Sprintz.

Alex sat looked over the menu. They had agreed yesterday that it would be work first. "Did you invite Liz to join us later?"

"She can get here for one. She has a scrap book of you notices and interviews and thanks you for the birthday presents you sent her. Especially the diamond bracelet from Columbia. She never wears it because she assumed it was stolen."

"Yeah, but it's not like the former owner is ever going to miss it. He's reinforcing part of the main highway to Venezuela. I was there for the concrete pour. Better in my pocket than in his, waiting for some CSI to excavate his mouldy corpse." Alex then noted the digital recorder was on. "I didn't kill him, I was only there as Misha's bodyguard, who am I kidding I was always just his personal entertainment, he was discussing some financial transfer with the Marianas Cartel. The whole internment was meant as an example to Misha, if he fucked up then he and I would be part of the next bridge abutment. Why do bad guys never understand subtlety." Alex had never asked who it was or what they had done to deserve the fate of being encasing in concrete alive. Knowing the nut job in charge, the unfortunate schmuck had dared to look at Bruno's sister the wrong way. Alex had the sneaky feeling he had only survived after making conversation with Constanza because Bruno had caught him giving Misha a blow job earlier.

As Edward switched off his digital recorder and put away his notebook, he looked sad and worn. "I'd like to say that's great were finished; but God, Alex, please tell me it wasn't worse than that. Hindsights, a wonderful and terrible thing, but I would like to think we could have worked things out. You found a home with Maria and Vladimir. What did I miss that made you run?"

"It wasn't you, Liz or Sabina. It was the simple fact that Tulip Jones legally still had guardianship. I overheard the conversation when she refused your offer of adoption. I could not trust her and she obviously still wanted her hooks in me as I was a liability. I got out by burning myself. I had run away to give myself time to think and I was planning on getting a job, finding somewhere to live, moving on with a new name. Then I met Misha, we talked, we clicked. He took me nightclubbing and had drunken sex. I like sex, its one of those fleeting moments you can drown everything shitty out."

Alex then suddenly realised that Liz was stood behind him as he could smell Rive Gauche, her favourite perfume. He turned and then stood up, unsure on how to greet this woman. He had met Edward with guarded hostility, but he had tried to apologise through inappropriate gifts. He took in the fact she was still as slim and stylish. He then laughed loudly and full of mirth, on his foster mothers wrist was $50K worth of diamonds and platinum. "You're wearing your bling! I was sure you'd get it fenced, even on the black market you'd get enough for a nice holiday."

Liz Pleasure moved forward purposely making obvious she was going to hug, remembering the jumpy, touch shy teenager. The pair hugged. Nearly ten years had passed, but she had been happy that Alex had found happiness by moving at a tangent to his past. She was not bitter, just a realist that they had all been in an impossible situation. "Edward has already bought me tickets for your opening show. I saw you in Paris in December, but I was too chicken to go to the stage door. I wanted make sure when I saw you again you wouldn't run."

Alex moved to pull out the chair for the mother he had rejected. "Liz, Truth is I'm still running. Three years at Novosibirsk was just about all I could handle of staying put. I was starting to do really stupid things, best to move on and start again when that starts happening."

…..

"Hi, Doc. I'm here to tell you that I'm loosing the plot. Its OK, I think I can handle being both Sasha and Alex, again."

"Are you thinking of yourself as two separate entities?"

"Yeah, Serge always said Sasha was the dancer and Alex was the moody arsehole who drank. Sometimes I like to think Alex Rider died at some point between Cairo and Bogota. I'm cool with still being called Alex, but the version of Alex in my head is a complete psycho."

The ex-army officer surmised the last place-name was significant, "What happened in Columbia, Alex?"


	6. Chapter 6

Rather than talk, Alex closed his eyes and remembered when Alex Rider had hit rock bottom. Here on Harley Street he could the smell the dank, heavy air of the jungle. When his life had imitated a very similar journey undertaken by Hunter and Cossack in 1986, who had also been off to assassinate some jumped up war lord. History was repeating itself, as Alex was carrying a Soviet made sniper rifle, as well as most of the supplies for the three day trek through dense undergrowth. Their purpose of their forced march was to arrive at the guerrilla base undetected. Misha was affable and cheerful in spite of everything being wet, both of them being eaten alive by bugs and the constant horror of animals, insects and frigging plants that could kill you. In the young ex-spy's opinion, this misery was not worth even a million dollar pay check and Misha was getting paid nowhere near that. Alex suspected this job was personal as the Russian liked a nice cold dish of revenge. Moving from general to specific, Alex set the scene, "I used to think there were heroes and villains, good and bad, black and white. I lost the last of any notion of that in Columbia Province." Alex shrugged, looking briefly at his shrink and then avoiding eye contact with Dr. Pritchard.

The doctor kept silent waiting on his patient to put his thoughts into words.

"I should have told Edward to fuck off and told him just write his story and leave me alone. Only I started talking about Misha. Everyone assumes I hit rock bottom in Miami. No, I skidded to the deepest depths of my own personal hell ten weeks earlier. I was already self medicating, drinking, but drugs…. I only did drugs when Misha did. Special occasions, parties, whatever. He was very careful not to get addicted. I was already completely disassociated from my actions. Who cares if Misha was going to kill some lowlife. People died… I did not care. I got hurt, I did not care. I played Russian roulette as a party trick. One in six chance of certain death, I did not fucking care.

"We were doing our recon. At the time, there was a big government offensive against FARC. We were in the right place but definitely the wrong time. We got to our destination but we weren't the only ones after our guy. Place was surrounded by government troops and a couple of Americans speaking english. DEA, I guess or CIA." lex shrugged at that observation. "Only it wasn't just some marxist guerrillas at that base. They had children there, hostages. It was a stand off. Only no one was negotiating for those local kids, all under ten, still wearing their school uniforms. Misha had set up in a good location, waiting for his chance to get a shot in, just in case his target made a break for it. One more bullet in a firefight was not going to be noticed. I crept forward to the tree line, just behind a pair of green conscripts. I could see everything without a scope or night vision goggles. The troops moved back about another half a click down the only road in or out. I thought they were going to call in negotiators. The fucking bastards, the supposed side of law and order, called in an airstrike. I could taste the fuel from the aircraft as it flew low. I flattened myself against the ground. I must have been temporarily deafened by the explosion. I could smell burning …. burning flesh. Those kids were burned alive…. just like Jack…. a whole school of full of kids, murdered because of some asshole's political agenda.

"It must have been hours later, long after dawn when Misha did his circuit and found me. I was sat in the same spot. We were alone by then. The camp itself was completely gone and was still too hot to get close, even the surrounding canopy was smouldering. Nothing could have survived that inferno. We then walked back the way we came. The official story in the press and on TV back in Bogota was that FARC had killed all the hostages.

"I got back to our safehouse. The trek back have been days spent without speaking. Just doing as Misha ordered. After we washed, I asked MIsha if we could have a party. You know, when he invited a few friends over, lots of vodka, lines of coke, maybe some speed, and then all would take turns fucking me. Normally, I just did as I was told, but this time I wanted to be used. We were in that apartment for five days before we moved on to Caracas. I was drunk and high for the entire time.

"Misha tried to help. He locked me in a fucking basement when we got to Venezuela. I got to enjoy full cold turkey… no nice controlled withdrawal. He watched me the entire time, because three days in I tried to hang myself. Then I spent two days tied to a bed. After that I was little more than a zombie. Lights were on but nobody was home." Alex was sat staring at the floor. Worn out, cold and shivering, like he needed a fix. "He did one thing right, he tried and I mean really tried to help me and not with threats of boarding school or psychiatric hospital. There I was a skeletal wreck, because when you start doing charlie seriously, you stop eating. Misha asked me to tell him a secret. We both exercised a lot. Mix of martial Arts, Yoga, Pilates and Tai Chi; but Misha still did his set class, I joined him most days. I told him that for about three days after I was offered a place at the Royal Ballet School, I imagined growing up to be Nureyev, Baryshnikov or Stravenkov. When that all came to nothing, I told everyone I wanted to be a footballer, cause thats what normal teenage boys want to be. So, Misha arranged for both of us to go to a proper class every day we were in Caracas from then. He set the scene for me to find myself. My Russian mafia pimp boyfriend actually saved me.

"Then we went north to Florida, Misha had decided we should part company. Cortez wanted to buy me, funny how that all ended up being a DEA sting. Can I have a drink now?"

"I'll get you a glass of water" The doctor moved to the small fridge.

"Water's great, sparkling if you have it." The biggest lie in Sasha Makarov's life was him saying he wanted a mineral water, when the truth would always be 'Vodka, if you don't have that, tequila. A couple of bottles sounds about right.'

….

The apartment was tasteful and warm. Someone had already unpacked his bags. His dance books were arranged on the coffee table in the living room and his novels were on the bedside table in the main bedroom. His iPod already by the state of the art dock. He looked in all the cupboards, the toilet cistern and in every nook and cranny. The house was clean of any form of alcohol or chemical enhancement. Dieter was being a very thoughtful host. Alex sat on the sofa and put on the TV. It was just light and noise. He lay on the sofa and waited for the nightmares to rip across his mindscape. After all he discussed, a bed was the last place he wanted to crash.

He woke at 2am to his phone vibrating in his pocket. The name flashing up was Luci, only it was Piotr. "Hi, Sasha, Can you help me with my science assignment? The babysitter is bathing Nina and Gregori is watching TV. Its almost bedtime and I need at least a B, or Mom will ground me."

"So, you stole Luci's phone for a very long distance call? I am so proud of you, you're a real bad boy in the making. So.. tell me what's got you stumped?" Alex hoped it wasn't human reproduction, that was one topic that Petrushka's parents had to cover themselves, it was not the remit of a sort-of-but-not-quite big brother.

…

Sunday morning and Alex had found the small gym, this apartment had everything a billionaire could want and had enough a space to go through a mix of tai chi, yoga, pilates and finally katas. Most dancers rested on Sunday, but Alex used it to keep up his other life skills. He would occasionally practice knife throwing and target practice. His knives had been packed in their own case as well as a pair of Berrettas, which had been couriered over and had been placed in the same draw as his socks. The couriers and unpackers had been a company recommended by Paul. Probably a front for smuggling everything from hot art, diamonds, drugs and people.

At 9:30, Alex rang his old friend. "Fancy brunch, old man?"

"Less of the old. Yeah, I'll go out for some top nosh. There's a decent place just over the road from you."

"No I'll walk over to Soho, you can choose between that place on Dean Street or somewhere in Covent Garden."

"See you in twenty minutes, then trouble."

Paul McAllister was a man that did not need to book a table in the West End. All the restaurants were well aware that it would be bad for business getting on his wrong side.

The menu was perused by both men. Alex had eaten a light breakfast at 5:30 and was now quite hungry. He ordered porridge no cream, fruit salad, no pineapple or passion fruit, and avocado and poached egg on rye bread toast. He then frowned at the coffee on offer and requested "Cafeteire, Columbia medium roast, Cocora beans if you have them."

The waitress stopped writing for a moment. "I'm sorry, we have err the house blend. Its really nice." Damning it with faint praise.

Alex reached into his pocket and handed over a quarter pound of genuine Columbian beans. "You'll need to grind it. I get my supply from a friend in Miami. Best coffee in the world. I learned in Russia, take your own coffee with you, if you don't want to drink swill. I've been in Starbucks in New York and made then use my beans." He then smiled at the Scottish waitress, who had introduced herself as Kirsty. "Keep what's left over , because you guys should try this. Its amazing."

Paul sat back. "I forget you're American until you start ordering food and drink. Yanks are all so particular. My usual." Which was a full english, large with fried eggs, white toast and a pot of marmalade on the side. "No nancy bloody rye for me and a pot of his coffee. Thats all, darling."

The older man was dressed in an awful track suit matched with a designer t-shirt and wearing enough gold to be mistaken for a rapper. "So Ramon still sends you care packages?" Paul was well aware that Cortez like keeping any threats sweet. Alex was certainly an asset to keep in your arsenal.

"The guy's such a sweetie. This stuff has probably had cocaine washed off it at some point, but hell most of the supermarket stuff has as well."

It was at that point a familiar face said hello. "Morning Sasha."

"Morning Graeme, may I introduce Paul McAlaster, my pimp." Alex added with a large Cheshire cat-like smile.

"God, you're a comedian, Al. Your pimp at the moment is that bitch in New York, the terrifying Madam Ludmilla." Paul stood up and offered his hand in greeting to the Director of the Royal Ballet. "It a genuine pleasure. Please join us, more the merrier."

"Thank you, you're very kind. My partner will be joining us, he's just powdering his nose." So, this was the infamous gangster, who had sponsored the Manfred Schnagel dance troupe and was a close friend of Sasha Makarov. Rumour was the pimp comment was actually very true.


	7. Chapter 7

Paul had made an early exit, going back to work, but Graeme, his partner the lovely Martin and Sasha were sat enjoying a third cafetiere of best Columbian, when the dancer told his new boss of another avenue he was exploring. "I don't know if you saw my shows with Cin and Serge back in 2009. I've been working through a few ideas with the artist we used for our visuals, Dave Meadows. He's got an installation at the Tate in seven weeks. He's been in touch about a integrating a performance as a opening for his holographic sculptures. I'm thinking of choreographing a more modern piece with Cin. She's been working for Sienna Murray at Dance Scene in Edinburgh since last year. I wish I'd gone to their show at the Festival last year. The bits on Youtube looked stunning."

"Yes we both went up for that. Your girl Cin found her feet with Ms. Murray" noted the ballet maestro remembering the tall, willowy soloist. "You were right to encourage that statuesque young lady. She has gone from strength to strength with a more modern style."

"Yeah, I just told her you had to work for something good in your life and you needed be a bit of a selfish bastard to get there. I had no doubts about her inner steel and resolve, her uncle is a drill sergeant and the Army invented how to shit on people from a great height. Last august, I was a bit busy dealing with my own personal problems. Tania always gets her own way in the end. She wanted more from me than I could give. She wanted babies, two before she's forty. I mean christ, I'm not father material, not by a long way." Alex looked around at the few tables with babies and children. He really loved his Stravenkov siblings, but he never wanted kids himself. It had been John and Helen's biggest mistake. Parenthood had started the series of events that had killed them both. Then leaving the care of said baby to two psychopaths, Alex wondered who was worse; Ian who had actually brought him up or his godfather Ash.

"I'm sure you'd have muddled through. Most people do." Martin interjected.

"Well, apart from the fact I had myself snipped at 18, I think adopting kids who need love and support is a better way of going about it. Hell, Maria had the right idea. Live your life to the fullest and then do the parenthood thing. Her example was always Marek anyway." Alex drained his cup, finally he'd had his fill of rocket fuel. "I don't know if you ever met Maria?"

"Only briefly, many years ago in Leningrad as it was then" stated Graeme. She had been teaching then, he had attended a class where she had been a vindictive, cruel perfectionist.

Alex decided to explain their strange relationship, more than mentor or teacher, but not quite like a mother and son, as both individuals had been broken by their life experience. Alex loved her storey and now told a highly edited version. "She connected with me because of the similarities in our lives. I told her all about my descent into hell and she told me all about surviving horror as a child. She was twelve when the Nazis invaded and blitzkrieg flattened her home town of Smolensk; where she was at the Dance Academy, a young orphan bullied and unhappy. She used to sneak out at night to see her older brother, he would also sneak out of his work lodgings, fourteen and already a factory worker. The barrage of bombs reigned down and they were stuck outside frightened but together, both expecting to be beaten in the morning for disobeying dormitory rules, but they stayed hidden and safe in the park. In the morning his dormitory and the Dance Academy were gone and the two siblings joined the throng that were evacuating to Moscow and Leningrad. Their luck had run out as they went to Leningrad.

"They arrived in the city to find the Kirov had already departed to Perm. They had nowhere to go as the front lines closed in. It was everyone for themselves on the streets and her brother left her to her fate. Winter was bitter and the food ran out. Maria learned to survive by selling everything she could, stealing, lying, cheating and finally selling her innocence. She picked Marek's pocket, not for money but for a potato, worth more than roubles or gold. He gave chase and caught her and made her empty out her sack of meagre belongings for his stolen property. Inside were her pride and joy, two pairs of dancing shoes carefully wrapped in newspaper. That saved her from prison or more likely a lynching. Martial law meant thieves and looters were harshly dealt with, no matter their age.

"She was very kind to me, but only set loose targets but not boundaries. I slept little, looked like as starved rat and ran wild. This was the man-child Luci Stravenkov invited into her home. It was only the second real family I'd exoerienced, Edward and Liz were the first, but somehow I stayed with Vladimir and Luci and they are still family. Someday, I may open my own home to a stray but not yet. I have a way to go before being able to give and provide a nurturing environment to a child."

Graeme found himself liking the young man who had melted the ice in Maria Makarova's cold black heart. Her name in the Kirov had been black widow as she had buried two husbands and one lover by her fiftieth birthday. Here, the young dancer was as strong as her, but life had not left him with a hard facade, hers only melting on stage where she danced for her beloved Marek.

…..

Life as a dancer was again all consuming, with practice, rehearsals and publicity. Sasha was slowly integrating with the company, which was his temporary home. He had baked and brought in apple sharlotka on his first day of rehearsals and three days later he was making friends and settling into the routine. He hated the photo shoots but publicity was a necessary evil. The photos for the programmes and the posters had been taken on October, when he had signed his contract; but the negotiations for his participation and the programme of work had been agreed last summer. He had been planning to leave Novosibirsk for a while. He had needed a change and longed for expanding his repertoire into more adventurous works and stagings.

He had heard little from Russia. Dima had remained silent and had not returned Alex's messages, but that was inevitable an result of the fallout from his relationship with Maxim. Now, he was in no mans land again, alone but not looking for a lover. The fling with the TV producer had been advantageous for all the wrong reasons, both parties using sex and neither looking for anything positive. He had been nothing more than a whore again, it was something to go over with Terrance during their next session.

Sasha hated the fact it was forbidden to smoke inside and as a result he was trying to give up. Gum and those patches were a poor substitute for his beloved, bad Russian cigarettes.

Thursday rolled around and tomorrow he was picking Alia from the airport. Once again, his partner for the Leningrad Variations and also as assistant for his masterclasses, as a honoured instructor at the Moscow Choreographic Institute, he was sure he had a lot to learn from her about teaching technique.

He was briefly resting during another epic session in the rehearsal room. Working with Regina, a young soloist partnering him in Mayerling as choreographed by Sir Kenneth Macmillan. New steps, new style, new partner; it was thrilling.

Graeme snuck into the rehearsal and was happy to watch for a few minutes before breaking his bad news. "Sorry, Barry darling but I need to borrow Sasha for a bit… in fact it may be better just to concentrate of Regina's solos for the rest of the day. This might take a while."

Alex noted the Director had been a bit cagey with the reasons for the interruption, once he was dressed in warm clothes, the walked to his office. "Is it a problem with my urine sample? 'cause I swear I'm clean. I have not used anything except prescribed medication since I was 16."

"No, no there are two gentlemen to see you on official business."

With that statement Alex's heart sank reminded of similar visits by members of MI6 Special Operations to his home in Chelsea over 10 years ago. He forced himself to remain calm and to wait and see what they wanted. Then he could cut and run, if necessary. He knew all the exits to the building and was certain he could take out the two agents, if necessary.

The men in the room were no one Alex was familiar with but that wasn't a surprise. He only really knew three people working at the Royal and General Bank and two ran the place. Edward introduced the guests "Inspector Simon Jenkins, Interpol Liaison at Scotland Yard and Pavel Rybakov of the Russian Embassy. They said they were here regarding Operation Vico."

Alex knew that by interviewing him here, he was not a suspect. He crossed his arms and looked petulant at being disturbed at work, "What do you need to know?"

"Please sit down Mr. Makarov and Mr. Rawlings. Could I trouble your assistant to get us some tea or coffee." Graeme went to arrange refreshments as two files were put on the table. After a small delay, the door was closed, Graeme had poured out four cups of tea and the Inspector took a sip and seemed quite nervous. "Operation Vico is the latest international operation against child endangerment via pornography and exploitation and the apprehension of those distributing such material. As part of a current investigation in Moscow certain images came to light. Images of you Mr. Makarov, when you were a teenager, about twelve to fifteen. You had very short hair and an earring in your right ear. I can see you still have that ear pierced."

"I know exactly what your talking about and I know who had the images. I did not give them to Maxim. He… used them to coerce me into a sexual relationship. They were taken about six weeks after my fourteen birthday at a boarding school in France. The deputy headmistress drugged me, stripped me and took the photos of me naked, in fact she took photos of all the boys for Dr. Hugo Grief who ran the school. It was part of a black mail plot and if you want more information you need to talk to someone at SIS or MI6. Those images were supposedly secured as evidence."

The Russian spoke up "Please tell me why you did not tell the State Security in Moscow, the American Embassy or British MI6 that evidence had been compromised?"

With a rolling of his eyes, Alex laid down a few home truths. "Right, me volunteering to talk to the authorities. Not likely, if you know anything about me, you know I have an extremely low opinion of you people doing the right thing. I was pretty much shafted after my short period in protective custody in Florida in 2003, so no I can handle pathetic people like Maxim Lukov. I had my reasons for keeping it to myself. This affected my friends, not that I'm close or even in contact with most of the others.

"I was not the only boy affected… the others included the children of an American General, a Russian General, three sons of prominent businessmen and two sons of media moguls. In fact, I really did not give a crap if Maxim had released pictures of me. I have never made a secret that I had a less than stellar life before I was sixteen. As a Russian TV producer, I discounted him being interested in the other boys except my friend Dimitry… Dimitry Ivanov, a Captain in Directorate 3 of the Federal Security Service, but whose Great Uncle was Head of Directorate 1, until he retired in 2000. I went along with Maxim's pathetic and rather laughable attempts at blackmail for my friend Dima. He lost his father while he was at that school, he is still rather fragile about it. I was already planning on leaving Russia and for a few pathetic fucks, it was a small price to pay. I got word out to James' dad and to Paul.. Roscoe and Joe Canterbury in the States. I did not have a way of contacting the others, but Paul or Dieter will have." Alex broke into a sad, rueful half smile. "I've fucked worst bastards to please people, who at the time I thought loved me. Anyway I'm not a credible witness in anyones court, being a teenage whore, drug addict and alcoholic."

Alex was shaking, anger was never a good thing, you let your emotions out and you fucked things up big time. He hated Maxim and his petty games. He'd had his revenge, but the stupid fuck was meant to have destroyed the pictures. "He had destroyed the pictures of Dimitry, that was our bargain. Please tell me he didn't try and use them as leverage with those investigators?"

The Russian softened slightly, "Mr. Lukov's computer contained a number of degrading images. I know Mr. Ivanov has been made aware of their contents."

"Poor Dima…. I… tried to spare him this pain, this humiliation" Alex tried not to weep for his fellow survivor of the school from hell, but several tears escaped. Graeme, ever the gentleman, passed over his monogrammed linen handkerchief.

The inspector pulled out details of two support groups for victims of sexual violence and child pornography and asked, in a soft gentle voice if Alex had a good support network. "I would give away the seven million pounds I inherited from my asshole of an uncle if I could make all the mistakes in my past go away and find some way of stopping me making more of them." Alex got up and left without a backwards glance.

Simon Jenkins asked Graeme Rawlings "He's got friends to rely on, hasn't he?"

"That I can't say for sure. The only friend of his I've met was introduced to me as his former pimp."


	8. Chapter 8

Alex made his way back to the rehearsal room. His bag was still there with his much needed nicotine gum. He had no cigarettes, but he would be purchasing a packet on his way home. What brand though, he doubted you could legally buy papirosi in the EU, so he would settle for Sobraine Black Russians, Gauloises or at a push Lucky Strikes.

He snuck in and started to stretch, while Barry's attention was completely concentrated on Regina. Her first staring role in such an emotional pivotal character. The Director was there to push for not just technical perfection but soul, drama and realism in the ballet about love, the weight of expectation and duty, and the enticement of death.

The Director rubbed his chin and asked the male lead for input, "Sasha join Gina and help her understand motivation."

With the story only told through mime and movement, you had to be completely centred to give a convincing performance. The twenty-five year old dancer fully concentrated on his own experience of obsessional 'love', as his role required. He looked in the nineteen year olds lovely soft hazel eyes, noting uncertainty and nerves. "It is only us, darling. Nothing else matters in the world. I have only experienced love like this twice, once on the receiving end, unrequited on my part and once as a full partnership, a meeting of minds body and soul. You and I are those lovers for our performance." He moved to his starting place and held out his hand for his partner to join him. "My love, my heart, my light in this dark universe. You blind me. I am a slave to you. All others are beneath you, my Mistress. Think on my words as my prayer to you as we dance." He then embraced her in hold and whispered in her ear, repeating those in Russian as they moved.

Barry watched and then clapped "Bravo, perfection, delightful. Starting places. Now a run through from the top with that intensity."

As the ballerina left that evening, she saw Alex beg a roll up off the doorman. His words earlier had made her heart flutter and now she understood his earlier comment that life was art. You had to understand your emotions to be a credible performer. She had to connect with her own instances of complete misery over unrequited love and could not wait for the real thing, even if it was fleeting.

…

Pavel sat in the secure communications hub and connected to his colleagues in Moscow. His full report had been emailed and he was confirming his conclusions with the investigative team. "My interview with Makarov over the images in question has shown your initial assessment was right, Lupov was blackmailing him into a sexual relationship. The intel from his contact reports has shown he had two heterosexual relationships with his dance partners in the last three years and no inclination for reverting to his earlier homosexuality. I also agree with the doctor's assessment of Makarov, that he is psychologically fragile. He has very low self esteem and was willing to comply with his blackmailer, with the agreement Lupov destroyed images he had of Dimity Ivanov. He also passed information on to Dieter Sprintz and Paul Roscoe, that images from Point Blanc Academy were in the open, both are rich and powerful men, both of whom are alleged to have used less scrupulous methods to exact revenge. The situation is unlikely to have any relation to the assassination at the Kremlin, in my opinion. I think if we push Makarov, it may cause us problems with Alexandrov and his allies, he is and always has been the little spy's protector."

…..

Alex was trying to drown himself in the shower. He did not feel like cooking but neither did he feel like going out to eat. There was some left over kasha in the fridge, only that was meant to be breakfast in the morning. After work, he had cancelled his follow up appointments with Dr. Pritchard, as he was sick of talking. If Graeme brought it up, he would go back but he knew work was more therapeutic than rehashing things that were better left buried. He scrubbed his skin under the hot spray, wishing for his thoughts to stop. Here, he was getting drawn back into a dark place thinking about Columbia. For years he had buried those memories by existing day by day, fighting to keep sober, learning everything he could about dancing, life and expanding his horizons, never stopping moving and keeping sleep as a luxury. Luci probably only missed him because he cleaned and baked and then entertained Grisha and Petrushka during the early hours of the morning. Even here, housekeeping arrived to a spotless apartment. The Irish woman had sat down drunk tea and watched Good Morning, telling the polite and tidy guest of Mr. Sprintz, all the details of what a messy beast James was when he stayed in London to visit his mother.

As his skin wrinkled under the deluge, the dancer cut off the water, dried his skin and still naked he went into the modern kitchen and ate two crisp green apples, washed down with a carton of buttermilk. Simple good food, tomorrow he would have supper with Alia, at the Dorchester. The apartment was dim in the evening twilight and he sat on the floor and he measured each breath, deep and even. He picked up his phone and called one of Paul's nearest and dearest.

"Danny? … Yeah, its Sasha. Are you free tonight? ….. I need your special brand of TLC… I'm living at Dieter's place. Cool, see you in half an hour. Bring supplies, not even got condoms."

…

First rule as Assistant to the Artistic Director was to keep him happy by making sure all the principals were happy. Sasha Makarov's personal life was a walking disaster area, but he was punctual and he worked like a demon, personable, challenging his own boundaries and always with a fresh perspective to his art, the staging and his motivations. The directors, the ballet master and the choreographers all raved about him. Class was due to start in five minutes and the guest artiste was a possible no-show. Not unsurprising since the events of yesterday. The rumour mill knew images of Sasha as a teenager had been found by the police, pornography, proof of exploitation by pedophiles had been the reason for him to go off the rails. Now the American had to face the mix of pity and hopefully support.

Then he arrived with seconds to spare and she let out the breath she'd been holding. Everything was back on track and she need not have worried. The dancer was accompanied by what she took to be a bodyguard, a frankly huge, burly, bald man with tattoos on his neck and hands.

The whole company got to watch as Sasha put on his shoes, watched by his protector, whose full attention was on the dancer. There followed as gentle exchange of soft touches, a lingering hug and finally a blistering farewell kiss. "Promise you'll eat, don't work too hard, you know your boundaries and I'll see you tonight at 11. Ok Sugar?"

"I'll be good. Thank you for dropping everything for me. You are wonderful. See you tonight." Alex then went and took his place at the bar, a soft and relaxed expression on his tired face.

So, Sasha had a mysterious boyfriend.

….

A slick black BMW 5 series picked Alex up promptly at five. By six fifteen he was back at Heathrow awaiting the arrival of Alia Uslana, his BFF from Moscow. She was here to dance and to scare the living daylights out of everyone at the Royal Ballet. A true diva, who lived and breathed her art. She had a new vocation reviving lost Soviet era works, a woman working on her doctorate, teaching and dancing only part-time. Now career orientated, she no longer moaned about her ex-husband and her dull existence.

The woman looked like a grand duchess, dressed in Donna Karan underneath a genuine sable coat, which was an heirloom from her grandmother. The mistress of the french ambassador; therefore a high ranking KGB officer. A teenage member of British Airways ground crew had volunteered to push the trolley containing the prima ballerina's Louis Vuitton luggage.

"Good evening, naughty boy. Your friend Dimitry has been trying to call you. He drove me to the airport and moaned about you and the shit head Lukov. You should not switch off your phone, it is not polite."

"I spoke to him on the way here. I apologised about everything. I thought he knew my quirks better than anyone. I was giving out all the signals for an intervention, but alas they let me dig myself into a hole. I would have happily stayed in Russia, if not for Maxim and his games." Alex looked at her in full seriousness, "I've signed a contract to go to Sydney. I'll be living on the other side of the world from you, from Boris, from Vladimir and my family. I will also be away from Paul and his bad influences. There I will try to make a home with some sort of stability and maybe love."

"And this man who you are with? This big dangerous criminal?" Alia said full of concern.

"I guess you have a direct link to the gossip grapevine through Malia in the costume department or was it your good friend Sandy, queen B of the Corps de Ballet? Have I guessed right on who grassed me up?" Alex looked pissed for a second, arms crossed and confrontational, before relenting and holding his friend's hands, his thumbs stroking her palms. "Danny is a sweetie… a dom. We're old friends from when I stripped for Paul. I was a mess yesterday, but he gets TLC, he looked after me. Got me out of a dark space, by being there 110% for me. I know you don't get that shit, but I need it sometimes, to get perspective. He never hits… its not abusive, its about reseting my boundaries and he shows me I'm beautiful and that I deserve love." Alex then shrugged, "I do get to call him daddy as well."

"Dima's right. You are fucked in the head. I, Dima… your other school friends from France can handle shit doled out by creeps like that TV producer. Even if he gets off with a fine, which is highly likely considering his advocate. I'm afraid all of Russia knows he tried to shaft you… that he's an obsessive creep into children, which means no one will give him the time of day again. His bitch of a wife had been harping on about you breaking up her happy marriage, now with the truth, she will get no sympathy anymore and has been tarred as child abuser by association. Everyone is on your side, Sashenka. You do not need to run away, my beautiful broken brother."

As Alia settled into her suite and refreshed herself before for their casual supper. Alex phoned Dieter Sprintz on a newly bought pay-as-you-go unregistered phone. "I have sunk Maxim. Have you given Interpol the info you had on the archivist at Albert Embankment who leaked those documents?"

"Yes, that misguided fool would have been better of being caught selling documents to the Chinese. Jail for a pedophile can be quite brutal, especially as the one he hurt is a close friend of Paul McAlaster. Dimitry has been quite put out about it all and James has flown to Moscow to console him. Your plan was brilliantly executed. Another stunning performance. Enjoy your stay in London, I'll see you next week when James and I attend your premiere. I'm afraid I have to fly out again straight after the performance, but James will be staying at my Park Lane apartment. Try not to scare him too much, he's had a sheltered life compared to you and I."


	9. Chapter 9

The features editor of the Guardian read the piece submitted for the Magazine. "This is quite shocking. I'm surprised this dancer was so candid with you. It is more of an investigative piece than the Royal Ballet were after, but what the hell, their lawyers have OK'd it. I'd heard rumours about Makarov, but you can understand his substance abuse issues considering the horrors suggested from his past. I like the fact you have tempered it with his confession that he has to fight to stay clean and sober and is still dealing with his demons, including mental health problems as a result of systematic child abuse. No name for his birth family, I take it he never named them. Good piece, got any ideas for a follow up?"

The reporter ignored the enquiry about the dancer's real name, that was one can of worms Edward did not want to open up. Others had tried and failed to substantiate the rumours of a teen-agent, not when both the Americans and the Russians were protecting that skeleton in their closet. "Vanity Fair have enquired about an interview with the Stravenkov's as well as Sasha. I have spoken to their agent and yes Sasha is looked after by the frankly terrifying Ludmilla Schmidt. Its all with lawyers at the moment. Vladimir has never done any interviews about his private life and is still good friends with the his ex, Dianna Loewe. I spoke to her off the record and she says Sasha is a complete delinquent, but is a better dancer than his 'daddy'. She also says that the rumours about that boy's paternity are hilarious, considering they were married between 1986 and 1990 and were both were madly in love and it was his alcoholism that caused their split, not infidelity." Edward sat and cleaned his glasses nervously, "I doubt I'll get to do the interview. I'll see if I hit it off with Vladimir on Saturday when I go to the premiere of the Variations. Our publication timing is not helping; its a shame this piece is not published for another three weeks."

"All timetabled for the Mayerling revival. I heard he was getting close to Gina… no Regina Shaw. The telegraph got to do the biographical piece on her and are trying to spin it as a budding love triangle with his old flame Alia Uslana."

Edward laughed, "Sorry, that just hilarious."

"What is?"

"Sasha is openly bisexual, but he's dating a large and burly bouncer called Danny at the moment. Gina is just a good friend and Alia was definitely always more of a big sister. She and Sasha only dated for a week, before deciding to be friends rather than lovers. When I spoke to her she was of the opinion that Sasha needs a nice strong man again to look after him and cherish him. The rumours about Titania are off as well, they had a very open relationship. She's just upset the press in Russia painted her as a gold digging whore when Sasha moved back to Moscow and she got engaged to her billionaire husband to be."

"So, you'll meet Sasha's unofficial family. You and he are quite friendly." The editor's instincts were telling him there was much more between the journalist and this dancer, Edward was being very close-lipped.

"I'm glad he decided to talk… but, he's complicated. I think its more a case of I'm the least worst option, as he expects newspapers to print lies, and that I asked the right questions in the right way. You start with probing questions about family or his affairs and you are not going to get anywhere." Edward had promised Liz to never betray Alex's confidence and always be honest and open. They had failed Alex in 2002, by talking about guardianship issues behind his back. Alex cut no slack if you failed him, he learned the hardest lessons in his life from Jack, who had already decided to relinquish her guardianship before they left for Cairo. The bank had held the puppet strings and he saw their situation going south again and left before anyone got hurt. Saving himself for being abused further by MI6 and also removing the possibility of MI6 getting the Pleasures killed. His daughter had already put their friendship in jeopardy before he had left by deciding her popularity at school was more important than he was. This piece had allowed closure, he could never say they were friends.

…..

Tom Harris looked at the copy of the Big Issue left in the canteen. The cover was some Russian ponce wearing chelsea top screaming like he was some sort of real fan or a dyed in the wool hooligan. Freaking Ballet Dancer had probably never been to a game, never mind knowing the off side rule. The Headline was 'London born Sasha Makarov returns to dance at the Royal Ballet'. This was the first time the electrician had ever heard of him, then again he was probably some cousin of that billionaire who owned 'Chelski' Football Club. Half of Chelsea and Kensington was owned by bloody foreigners and city types. Seemed the locals were hemmed in on all sides at the World's End Estate. He put the magazine in his bag for his mum, she liked that arty stuff.

….

Alex had never danced for good reviews or for fame. Getting work was hard enough for any dancer and he knew no matter how good you were you needed mentors and sponsors. A life as Manfred's muse had been enough for him, but that door had been slammed shut four years ago.

Ballet School's picked talent young and nurtured them in house, so duckings emerged as swans. That path denied him because of Ian's grand plan for a perfect operative. The truth was he should never have been able to make it into classical dance. At 18, he had thought even the corps de ballet was practically impossible. He had the backing of the former Artistic Director of the American Ballet Theatre and that had not opened any doors in New York, when he was at seventeen. Technical virtuosity was not enough considering he was an unknown with a bad reputation. He had only danced for Vladimir and had been rejected at all open auditions. Modern dance was not his first love, but it had been a stepping stone to greater things.

The Bolshoi had been after Maria's archive when they contacted him. They had allowed him to dance because of her alone. No matter how good, he was never going to get the offer of a full contract there. He had pushed the doors open himself with his reworking and staging of Veshin's lost ballet pieces. He had shown he was not just a dancer, but a visionary, taking notation from page to a full length show, revealing their beauty and brilliance. Ideas he had formed when discussing those works with Maria. As she had loved the influence of a free-er, more fluid style in the west. It had resonated with Veshin's ideas influenced by the rise of jazz. All things frowned upon by Stalinist doctrine.

He was driven to create something different, more permanent; contemporary ballet but unconventional in concept. It was a early on a sunday morning and rather than relax, he was in a studio sub-let, with Dave Meadows and awaiting the arrival of Cin Cooper, who had dropped the Cindy and had weathered a few storms herself over the past three years. The ballet dancer had already roughly choreographed a pas de deux, influenced by the open sexuality of Kenneth Macmillan's work. The artist's idea was centred on six holographic images as sculptures, with a central one in homage to the immortalised lovers of Rodin's the Kiss. The dance piece as the planned opening but video would be incorporated into the room, like memories for the creation of the sculptures. Dave had been influenced by troika's video and dance interpretations, which had layered Sasha's first choreographed pieces.

Dave had set up three digital cameras to record the rehearsals and was playing with the settings on his very fancy camera. "So, old Serge has disappeared off toLas Vegas of all places. Then I hear from you that Cin had filed for divorce. I warned her, you warned her, but he's a right charming bastard. He'll end up married to some heiress, film star or pop star. He wants easy street and dancing is anything but that."

"I'll put a hundred on him wearing concrete socks before the year is out, cause he ends up sleeping with some mafia tosspot's wife or mistress." Alex stated thinking of the five grand with interest he was still owed.

"No bet considering you'd put a contract on him just for breaking Cin's heart."

"I'll have to get in line. Cin's uncle has probably got every ex-SAS sad sack looking for him to make good in his shovel talk." Alex wondered how many nut jobs Sergeant Cooper had trained over the years.

At then end of the day, Dave was happy and had timetabled in the detailed photography of the holds as agreed and their locations. The timescale meant to would be a frantic last 48 hours to finish this installation and the final video could not be done until the gallery was set up for a full dress rehearsal.

Alex then got a wild idea. "Both Cin and I have stripped professionally. Throw in a bit of conceptual art, Start with us both fully dressed normally, not in costume. As lover's we will undress, the clothes becoming part of the exhibit. Maybe the last items of underwear placed on the central pedestal at the point the life figures are replaced by the sculptures."

"Yeah… that might make it more dynamic. I like it. Can't wait for the run through."

Cin had remained silent as she removed her ballet shoes and massaged her sore feet. "Why did I let you talk me into this? This art is getting more and more pornographic. Now, we'll be naked?"

Alex held out his hand to help his old dance partner to her feet. "Its all slight of hand, right up until the last moment we'll be in undies at least, likely with those flesh-coloured g-strings. I do think we'll both be topless, but not a full flash of penis and vagina. Depends on how real Dave wants it. The agreed poses are all sensual and erotic rather than pornographic. The dance is emotionally honest, not graphic. I will not be getting hard, we both have to concentrate to hard to hit those marks and those poses spot on. Lets go get something ridiculously high calorie for dinner as I'm starved."

"Cheesburgers and ice cream to follow. I need a glass of liquid relaxation as well." Cin concurred.

"You can have as much bubbly as you can handle, tonight. You serve it for be being an absolute tyrant to you today."

…

Ben Daniels was glad to be back in London. As usual after being in deep cover for a prolonged period, there was a large stack of work regarding his last mission in his in-tray to sign off or to finalise. He had already drafted his report for his last operation and he was thankful for this bit of respite from fieldwork. After umming and ahhing for over a year, he had decided to transfer departments, for a domestic posting based across town at Albert Embankment as Internal Security; mostly doing back ground checks and vetting employees of the security service but also investigating leaks, moles and traitors. He was on a month's wind down and had to train his replacement. It was a surprising rare occurrence as openings in Special Operations normally occurred through more abrupt exits, either through medical reasons but more often than not dying on the job. Ten years at the sharp end was long enough as he scars and persistent aches and pains to prove that point.

John Crawley introduced the petite new field agent, Margo Cant. "Daniels this is your replacement, Miss Cant, formerly of our sister branch MI5. She's been trailing your old team member, Cub while you've been sunning yourself in Syria." Ben then guessed that was the real reason Crawley had left his office for a chat. "His contact report makes interesting reading, but he's not made any suspicious moves despite his shady friends. For a dancer, he left a bit of a situation behind in Russia. CIA says its 65% sure Cortez paid for the hit on the money man. Cub's former partner, Brezkin, and Ramon are old friends. It's too many connections and coincidences for my liking. They may have been trying to use Alex as a patsy, but that doesn't sit right. Our analysis has not been helped because of the smoke screen created by that old perve in archives getting caught selling kiddy porn from that school in France to his circle of friends. Scotland Yard is having a field day rubbing our faces in that FUBAR. It's all in your in-tray. Miss Kant please show Daniels the psychological assessment from Prichard. We mentioned the hit to him and Cub's possible involvement and the doc's stated the kid might be our man but, and its a big but, he may not even be aware of it on a conscious level as the doc suspects complete programming may be at work from Brezkin. Say the right code words and you have the Scorpia trained assassin at your command. Just what we don't need. We've appraised our allies of this possibility, but the Russians have backed off with their investigation and are suggesting we do the same. The Yanks and the Aussies will keep a close eye on Cub, as he's off there next. If he has a controller, they will be the one we need to take out. So, our ex-operative is now bait."


	10. Chapter 10

Alex looked at his reflection in the window of 'The Upper Cut' in Deptford High Street, he moved to the right slightly and could see the woman tailing him. His shadow for the past two weeks. He then scratched the stubble on his chin. His hair was getting too long and rather than get it cut at some 5 star place in Mayfair or Kensington, he had come back to the salon he had frequented with Manfred. He opened the door, taking the chance that they could fit him in for a trim. He had not even spoken to the junior on reception, when Lionel the proprietor clocked him and erupted in a squeal of joy. "Sasha darling, returned from your bleak exile in deepest, darkest Siberia and dancing as principal for the Royal Ballet no less. Please tell me I can style those soft golden locks of yours?"

"That's the idea. I'm also meant to be growing a goatee for my next role as Crown Prince Rudolf. I need to exude both power, ruthlessness, desperation and desire. As you can see I haven't had a decent haircut in months. The last one was from some place in Stuttgart and I looked like a fashion victim when the girl was finished. You know me, I wash and leave it. I don't use product and prefer my au naturel, shaggy, sexy mess." Alex smiled and hugged the man who had been Manfred's favourite source of gossip. He had continued to frequent this salon even after he had moved back to Chelsea.

"So, tell me all about the Bolshoi, the Kirov, that ballerina who broke your heart in Siberia and all about the divas and the devils at Covent Garden. Lexi… Lexi… full wash and top of the line treatment for the Principal Guest Artiste. We have a genuine prince to pamper."

Alex had been pampered here when he had been a pauper, the warm welcome had been no different when the proprietor had asked about his work stripping or being a street performer.

….

He was tired, the good sort of tired after a performance and the fact it was back to the grind of class and rehearsals for the next performance tonight. The revival of the Mayerling had been a success with the audience, but last night, he and Gina had both missed out on celebrations to do a spot on a late night talk show. They had danced and then briefly engaged in conversation. Less than seven minutes on air in total. Afterwards he had shown the host a youtube clip of his last performance on TV in Germany, where Cin had joined him for a knife throwing act. One part of their solo act that had been all circus and had shown off the skills he had learned in Venice.

In the studio, there were a pile of the morning's newspapers, as the reviews, both good and bad, would be digested. It had been the ritual after the Variations had been performed. Sasha and Alia called a 'dream partnership' and the work beautiful and timeless. Most of the articles had concentrated on the loss of the unappreciated talent Marek Veshin.

"Sasha have you seen the papers this morning?" Nigel the senior principal asked. "Five stars in the Metro and 'a must see' in the Telegraph. USA Today calls you the 'a superstar of ballet'."

"Are you trying to see how big my ego can get… you know it's almost as colossal as yours. So, it doesn't need inflating. I'll wait for Graeme and Barry's critique and see how many changes and tweaks they want before I know how inadequately I did." Alex sat down and started to tape his right lower left leg and ankle.

"Problems?" asked the ballet master, "Delia go tell the physio Sasha will be seeing him after class."

"Stupid, old injury. Its niggling a bit. I should have iced it last night but we had that TV thing." The tape covered the scar from the surgery in Kenya, where titanium plates and screws held his tibia and fibia in place. "Nothing unusual and probably just means the weather is about to turn very wet and stormy."

He stood in his shoes and tested his taping, flexing and rotating his ankle joint to check he had full range of movement. "So Nige, what do you think of Edward's piece in the Guardian?"

"Is it good?" Magazine pieces are normally just hot air.

"Yeah, bared my soul. Needed to with those pictures from school making the rounds. One of the reasons I started drinking at fourteen."

"Oh, you discuss that do you. " The other dancer would now read the piece after practice.

"That, my pimp/boyfriend Misha, my cocaine habit and the shit DEA bust in Miami." Alex smiled, "Thank Christ, my life is so much more together now." The dancer added sarcastically.

At lunch time, he was meeting Gina for a sandwich before rehearsals. He stood in the crowd watching the street performers hustle and entertain in Covent Garden. He had enjoyed all that with Serge and Cindy. In many ways he was much less driven and calmer now. Maybe he needed to regain that fight and desire to prove himself. He was at the pinnacle of Classical Ballet, but was going it alone the right way? He would not be stupid and go and seduce Gina. He was getting a reputation of falling in love with his co-workers, when he had only been playing another part. His 'thing' with Danny was more real and that was not a proper relationship by a long way. He turned to go to the café near Drury Lane. He and Gina could moan together about their non-existent love lives.

….

Alex sat in the first class lounge of United Airlines, awaiting his flight home. He was tired but his short engagement at the Royal Ballet had been cathartic. He had seen the life he should have enjoyed whilst working there. A normal progression from pupil at the Royal Ballet School and then as soloist and then principal at Covent Garden, as part of a family. The easier path denied by Ian. He mused on the fact he was never going to forgive his uncle for his obsessive compulsion for Alex to be John reborn. From the wreckage left by MI6 he had built a life and was now moving on to a permanent position as a dancer, not a guest performer but a full member of a ballet company. He wondered if Australia could be a permanent home. He would wait a few years before deciding to buy a house and settle down. He pulled out the packet of gum, ordinary mint and sugar free, no longer on nicotine substitutes. Luci would be so proud of him for giving up smoking. The last remnant of the broken boy was in the past. He was an ex-smoker, one more crutch assigned to history.

He had bought an arts magazine to read, mainly because of the article about his friend Dave Meadows. Alex and Cindy had both loved the finished installation. A pair of lovers immortalised as six holographic images, and a video montage. As part of the dance performance for the opening their chosen clothes had been shed as the lovers emerged from their mediocre lives. Clothes, all from their own wardrobes, a suit combo he had bought to attend Manfred's funeral was now discarded on the floor; alongside Cindy's chosen ensemble of clothes, all bought for her by her ex-husband. The artist had loved that aspect of the dancers using his space to bring closure to their own love lives. He wondered on Cindy and her chosen path, going back to Scotland to teach, to dance and to grow. Alex had already contacted artists in Oz suggested by Dave, who had also commented that art was maybe a direction he should explore in the future. In New York, he would buy a camera and experiment.

The odds were he would again be followed everywhere in New York. Under survellaince as a threat to national security. Boris had already warned him that the British thought he was dangerous and possibly on the verge of a breakdown. There was no doubt about the first part of their assessment. He'd been fashioned into a weapon as a child. Those bastards had to live with their mistake. He would always protect his family and friends, few that they were. Both blatant violence and subtle manipulation had been used in the past year to resolve long term problems. Threats had been neutralised. It's not as if he cared if he slipped up and got caught, Alex had long since stopped caring about himself. Dancing was an act of containment to keep his inner monster at bay. A much better coping mechanism than drink, sex or drugs in the long run. He hoped he had at least another decade as a professional before moving over to be a ballet master or director/choreographer. Far reaching goals and ambition, he just needed to work on other exit strategies if that failed. He rubbed the sore skin on his wrists, now decorated with two tattoos both in Russian, on his left inner wrist was 'life is art' and on the right 'nothing is forever'. The act of permanently decorating his body was a promise to be normal, not to falter and let others deal with any future problems.

…..

Tom Harris was Chelsea born and bred and he kept in regular contact with a small group of fellow pupils from Brookland Comprehensive. He arrived to see his friends gathered at the Chelsea Pensioner pub; when he heard someone scoff, 'Druggie Rider indeed".

Marta came over and kissed her electrician boyfriend and then added to the general discussion "Well he cleaned up alright in the end. The Mail yesterday had pictures of him and his ballerina girlfriend having an emotional farewell at the airport. Supposedly part of a torrid love triangle with his Russian ex, that older brunette he danced with in Moscow."

Becks turned to Tom. "Hey, Tom. You were Rider's friend the longest. Did you know he was a dancer?"

"When we first met, he mentioned in passing that he had done ballet when he was a kid. Why are you asking about that dead beat? Last time I heard about him was when his foster sister Sabina called to say he was an addict and rent boy; who'd skipped rehab and fucked off again, that was in Year 11. I stopped speaking to him after the incident in English. Bastard didn't even visit me in hospital."

Marta smiled, "He's changed his name, but actors and performers do that. He's part of the display at Chelsea Academy now. Former drop out, troublemaker and serial runaway is an international ballet star. Miss Bedfordshire thinks he's the bee's knees. You really should read what was printed in the Guardian. That piece painted quite a horror story of his home life. We all missed that in Years 9 and 10. The Metro also says his real dad's some Russian general."

"Sarov?" Tom only sort of believed what had been confessed by Alex in 2001. The next summer, the Police had told everyone Alex was involved with some drug dealers, hence the shooting incident when Tom had been injured. Tom's parents had had an absolute freaky about that and had campaigned for Rider to be expelled and had forbidden Tom from talking to him ever again. Rider had gone to stay with Sabina's family in the States. Made sense since Cray and McCain had targeted the journalist which had dragged Alex into those very dodgy situations. The rest of Alex's adventures, on reflection sounded like a complete fantasy. Assassins, bombs, clones, viruses, terrorists and going into space, he'd been so gullible.

"That's the one. There's even a photo of them together taken at the General's house on Cuba. Rider looks like he's sucking lemons, but he was a bit withdrawn after his uncle passed." Becka pulled out a clipping from her pile and showed them all proof as published in a trashy tabloid.

"Al told me that Sarov shot himself in front of him… that was in May 2001. When he came back to school like a zombie and Hale started the rumours he had been in prison."

Marta shook her head remembering Mr. Popular. "James Hale is still a lying tosspot. He's the type to dig the dirt on us all. He was the one saying you and Al were bottom buddies. Well, poor Alex… fucking pedophiles got to him and fucked him up right and proper."

Tom quickly scanned though the magazine and was shocked with what Edward Pleasure had written. It mentioned briefly that stint at boarding school, check April 2001. Running away in September. Then Alex drinking at Christmas that year, which escalated after his accident in February. Moving to the States, running away with his boyfriend. He was going to reread all this to see what other things Alex had kept to himself, like when had he always wanted to be a dancer. Then again Ian had been a complete bastard when Al had been offered that apprenticeship at Chelsea. Tom had thought Ian was cool. How had he missed the fact his best friend had never been happy at Brookland; all the time he had wanted to be at the Royal Ballet School in Richmond. Ian had been a controlling bastard all along and it sounded like Jack had just sat back and watched. It had all looked picture perfect in that million pound house.

"So, Becks, got a crush?" He wondered on her collection of stuff on this dancer.

Then Brian, Becka's older brother chipped in "Don't be obtuse, Harris. Becka had the hots for Rider back in Year 8, only he was oblivious; then he went all weird. She's just missed her chance. Looks like he goes for hot brunettes, I mean look at that Russian bitch, she's way out of our league. His boyfriends are all old gits though. That guy in the track suit, I mean yuck. Must have a fantastic personality or a huge fortune to compensate for the complete lack of fashion sense."

Marta looked at the photo of Alex with his good friend, club owner Paul McAlaster. "Maybe just a big dick and loads of stamina. That always helps."


	11. Chapter 11

"You are coming with me to New York?" Edward asked as he sat back to check with Liz that he was correct in his assumption before he booked their flights. "Out Thursday next week and back on the following Tuesday. Ms. Schmidt has emailed that I'll be able to interview Vladimir and Sasha on Sunday. Vanity Fair have booked Michel Faux to do the accompanying photos, but their still haggling over details. I think we're both invited to lunch since you and Luci hit it off."

Liz answered from the kitchen, where she was tidying up after supper. "I know, she phoned earlier. We are going shopping after lunch, while you boys work. The kids are going to her parents for the weekend. I think she's getting theatre tickets organised as well for the Saturday. So yes, I am definitely coming and it better be business class. You can go steerage if the magazine is only paying for one ticket."

"Yes darling." With a few clicks he was all booked.

"I'm off for a bath. Don't work too late."

After midnight, there was the unmistakable sound of their daughter arriving for a visit by the slamming of the front door and the crash of her bags being dropped on the wooden floor of the hall. "How was China, Sabina?"

"God, who said being a travel journalist was fun? The expo in Shanghai was abysmal. Trekking in the Gobi was a total disaster and do not mention Hong Kong or Macau. Ugh, my government appointed translator was an absolute creep. I've submitted my chapters to the editor, but I am job hunting. She offered me Siberia next and thats just no way. Why can't I get Fiji or Bermuda?" The tall, slim travel writer leaned down to kiss the top of her father's head. "I take it mum's retired for the night. So, whats new of planet parent?"

"We're off to New York next weekend, I have a Vanity Fair piece to do. Liz is bankrupting me as she's shopping with her new best friend, Luci Stravenkov."

"I take it that your interviewing the man who does not give interviews. Wasn't he the one that punched that reporter from Rolling Stone and was sent on court appointed rehab in 91?"

"Yes and has not drunk since."

"Why the change in heart?"

"Blame your mother. We went to the ballet and well Luci and her just clicked."

"What! You went to the ballet. Mum normally goes on her todd. Was it a modern piece? I can't see you liking Swan Lake?" Sabina asked as she started going through the pile of hardcopies of her father's recent publications. The Weekend Magazine had a cover shot was of the dancer in full stage make-up and costume as the doomed Crown Prince. "Sasha Makarov…. must be Russian?"

She flicked through the full magazine. She stared at the centre spread. "That's Alex! WTF? A dancer?"

"Read and all will be revealed. Alex kept his own desires secret. His uncle was an absolute beast to him. He hid his sexuality and his love of dancing from everyone. I've known he was a dancer since Dieter Sprintz contacted me in 2005. Alex was then living with Manfred Schnagel."

Sabina sat and read every word and then listened to her father's recordings. "He's OK? I know he's successful and working hard, but he sounds so lost at times. He's got a mask on, a different one to the one he wore when he lived with us, but its all a front giving you what he's wants you to see. Those lost moments are the real Alex. I think back, the boy I befriended was a construct as well. The image of the boy Ian and those bastards who used him fashioned."

Edward switched off his laptop and stretched his legs. "Alex told me he has disassociative identity disorder. I think we only see his true self when he dances or when he chooses to love. All other times he is thinking five steps ahead to protect himself. He was quite candid that he started to hide himself at eleven. Maybe Jack got to see behind that mask, but I think he even fooled her into thinking he was OK. It all started to fall apart that Christmas, when he knew Jack was unhappy. His construct of safe and normal was breaking apart. He tried to tell us… show us he was lost. I just hope he stays happy and finds another lover like Manfred who accepts that he's broken into pieces."

…

This storm had been brewing since he arrived back in New York. Luci was pissed at him. In an effort to protect her, Alex and Vladimir had kept certain details about his past to themselves. Now she knew, but Alex would take anger over pity any day. Nina was at kindergarden and the boys were at school. There was a full pot of coffee brewed and Alex's favourite cranberry and orange muffins on the table. His friend wanted to talk.

His fingers flexed as he looked for an easy exit. He dutifully sat and waited for Luci to sit as well. He started with a diversionary tactic. "When Maria died, you both took me in. It was not because we were close or that you liked me. I know the old bag had threatened Vladimir, but I also know you were giving me home, because I would have gone to live with Manfred then. You both warned him off at the funeral. Told him to go and let me mourn her properly. Both of you tried to get me placed in a company here, pulled in your contacts and favours. I have never thanked you for putting yourselves out for me." Alex had been well aware of the manoeuvres to provide parental support when he was seventeen in the vain hope he would have stayed in New York. "At the time I thought you were protecting Manfred, but you were really protecting me from future recriminations."

He got up and poured out two cups of coffee. "This is home. I know I'm safe here. I never thought I'd ever have that. Growing up where we lived was a place to eat, sleep and to pretend to be a family. I had an illusion of a home, in London with Jack after Ian died, but it was never a safe place. It was the price of my compliance with my abusers. That life forced me to run. The best decision I ever made was selling Cheyne Walk to that friend of Paul's." Alex took a sip of the hot beverage. "It was my choice to go with Misha. When you have limited options, you tend to make really shit decisions. For your information I told Maria the worst bits. Even, that magazine interview was whitewash. If you knew the things I have done. When I first told Sabina about the abuse, she did not believe me until we were kidnapped by Cray. In that school in France, I faced true horrors. I was threatened… they told me they were going to cut me up because I had tried to escape. I still have nightmares about that."

Luci's beautiful face was pale and pinched, she was still so angry. ""I'm not angry at you, Cuckoo. It's just… I thought you were a thief, into underage drinking, doing drugs and a runaway. Normal teenage stuff. Not this. Everyone now knows, that you were… hurt so badly. I can understand why Maria and Vladimir fought so hard for you. It took me a while to accept you. How could I not when you were so sweet with Petrusha and Grishka. You cooked and cleaned like you needed to earn your keep. I saw a sad boy behind your hard mask, but this brutality. Those photos that shit in Moscow blackmailed you with."

"It was blackmail… Maxim had gotten photos of me and my friend, Dimitry. We met at Point Blanc Academy. I'd do anything to protect my friends. It's not like fucking meant anything. He was pathetic and I had already planned my exit strategy. It was nice going back to London."

He picked up a muffin and started to pick out the red berries. "I thought your father would have told you, we had a little misunderstanding when we first met. He took me into his study for a serious talk. He kept staring at me, trying to size up this cuckoo, having heard the rumours I was Vladimir's misbegotten progeny. Only, I offered him a blow job, I don't think he knew what to say when I took his refusal to mean he wanted full sex and just dropped my trousers. He was so sweet and embarrassed. He guessed I'd been seriously sexually abused and that I had to relearn boundaries. We talked and I assumed he'd told you. Before, everyone got to have their jollies with me." Alex then stared at Luci. "If you had known, would you have still taken me in?"

The woman looked pensive. "I would have insisted you see a psychiatrist, I would have made Vladimir take you on as a soloist; his backers and the other directors would have been more sympathetic if they had been aware you were at risk. You weren't ready to talk then. You had pushed it all to the back of your mind and carried on. Vladimir said cryptic things I now get, about your drinking and addiction. Coping mechanisms for trauma. Yes, you are my cuckoo, Maria's chosen heir. I took you in for her. She played matchmaker for me and Vladimir. She thought of him as her son as well."

The young man's fingers stroked the words inked onto his wrist. 'Nothing is forever'. This was sanctuary. Something to fight for but also something to be destroyed. He was making the right decision in going to Australia. "So, Dave says I need to expand my artistic horizons. That I have good instincts for incorporating conceptual art into dance. So, shall we visit the Museum of Modern Art this afternoon? I will take my new camera and photograph the most beautiful woman I know. " Before she hit him for being a creep, he continued, making her understand she was his mother even if he never called her that, "I never knew my mother, I've never spoken to any of her friends. She's an unknown quantity. I often wonder if she and you were alike. Probably not, she must have either been a fool or a saint to be with my father. Must have loved him at least, because love makes you insane."

…

Vladimir hated board meetings, but as a director of several organisations he had to attend several dozen every year. The current Artistic Director of the American Ballet Theatre was waiting to talk to Vladimir and knowing that snake, he was not going to like what he proposed. Mark Landry had been driven to overturn and readdress everything Vladimir had done during his term in the same post. One refusal was now hurting Mark Landry, he had seen Sasha dance in 2004 and had been bitingly cruel in his rejection of Vladimir's protégé. His friend, Ludmilla thought it was poetic justice that one of the rising stars of Russian Ballet refused all offers to dance at the Met, when he would be a guest for the other dance company in the city. The young dancer had told her that revenge was a dish of pure bitterness. She was always most charming when telling Mark Landry that Sasha Makarov was indisposed or had a previous engagement. So, Mark was making pleasant conversation about the up and coming season with the other directors, Vladimir knew he would not be so lucky. "So, I hear Sasha has signed a full contract with the Australian Ballet. Rumour has it there's a problem with his work visa. If he needs work, our doors would always welcome a dancer of his proficiency and repertoire."

"Ludmilla handles all those sorts of problems, as you know." Vladimir was worried. There was no reason for it, Sasha did not have a criminal record, either here, in Britain or in Russia. He was only taken in for questioning in Russia, regarding Maxim Lukov's dubious activities and was not have needed to appear as a prosecution witness.

"You must understand their misgivings considering Sasha was an associate of a wanted criminal. There is a current international warrant for Mikhail Breskin"

"You are very poorly informed. Let me tell you some truth behind your rumours. Sasha was 15 when Breskin groomed and raped him. In California and also in Florida, the law is quite clear that the use of coercion, violence or drugs/alcohol to have sex with a child under 16 is a felony, not a misdemeanour. Breskin has had a warrant for his arrest for rape and the attempted murder of Aleksandr since 2003. So, you call Sasha a willing participant not a survivor of child abuse . That man got Sasha hooked on drugs, a common method used to entrap vulnerable runaways into prostitution. I know Aleksandr has not seen nor had any contact with that thug since then. The Russian Security Services used truth serum to confirm that fact when they interviewed Maria's son. Those bastards beat, drugged and threatened Aleksandr with psychiatric treatment for perversion. My cousin Vadim was sent to state clinic at 15 for being homosexual. At seventeen he cut his throat with some wire and killed himself. I discovered his body. I know how they utterly destroyed him, taking a lovely, gentle boy and driving him into hopeless darkness. Russia is still like that under a very thin veneer of openness and acceptance." Vladimir was gripping onto his glass of water so hard, he wondered how the vessel was still in one piece.

"You are so lucky, you have never met really despicable people, like the man who brought Sasha up. I spoke to Graeme, he was spotted at 11 as an exceptional talent, offered a place at the Royal Ballet school after their official closing date for entries had passed. For his uncle to refuse that place but also forbid him any further lessons or even to talk about ballet. He crushed a child's hopes and dreams because Aleksandr was to be a soldier like his father." Vladimir wiped his face. "Luciana and I tried so hard to get him a placement here. Maria was right to be afraid he would fall back into destructive behaviour if he was hurt. He was again a whore after Manfred died. Now this again after Titania. We wanted to protect him. Maybe in Sydney he will find happiness. Who knows. I have been an over anxious parent expecting him to break, but like Maria he is as hard as a diamond and just as beautiful."


	12. Chapter 12

For the fourth day in a row, Ludmilla Schmidt had been given the run around by both the Australian Embassy and the Department of Immigration and Border Protection in Sydney about the confirmation of a Distinguished Talent visa for Aleksandr Makarov. She phoned for an appointment with the Consul General, for herself and Sasha.

Her back up plan was that she had put out feelers and five ballet companies would take Sasha if the Australians continued to drag their feet.

"It will be fine, Aleksandr. Charm offensive remember. Its not your fault, whatever happens it will be for the best. Just think the ENO, the Royal Danish Ballet, the La Scala Ballet, the Berlin State Ballet and the National Ballet of Canada have all stated they would welcome you as guest principal artiste at the drop of a hat. The Canadians have stated you would be invited as principal and maybe junior choreographer. There is no reason for these problems."

"Its security… I have a dodgy past." Alex said sullenly.

"You were a child, that is no reason for them to be so difficult. If they stall, we will back out and you can go Ontario with your head held high."

Alex had to admire the woman, who would try every avenue and open any door. Her grey hair piled high in a top knot, her make up dramatic and her entire ensemble exuded power, from her four inch heels to her Chanel suit, blouse and scarf, accented with flashes of gold. The weather too warm for any of her fur coats. He was wearing a highly fashionable tightly tailored dark blue silk suit and t-shirt with his lucky trainers; going for rock star rather than dancer. Looking younger than his 25 years.

Mags Cannock reread the security report before her guests arrived. A file with lots of blacked out lines, but she could do the maths, Covert Action Division of ASIS had used a child to infiltrate the Bangkok triads, who had exposed an illegal donor hospital and a major threat to Australia's national security and how did ASIS respond, with a block on this hero's visa application ten years later, because as a fifteen year old he had a complete breakdown and was still suspect. Her hands were tied, as she could not grant visa's personally, but she could play just as dirty as those spooks. She knew four department heads who were already aware of the near environmental disaster at Dragon Nine and she had a name for the operative who saved their fragile reef system ecology from destruction. That kid's visa was a matter of national pride and she would make sure her memo stating that made it into every in-tray in Canberra. Mr. Makarov deserved the highest honours Australia could bestow, not a cold shoulder for his alcoholism and past cocaine habit. She would brainstorm with Ms. Schmidt and use that woman's press contacts as well.

…

Gregory was shuffling and kept trying copy the tricks he had seen Sasha and his brother do effortlessly, but several cards slipped through his fingers.

Alex was teaching the Stavenkov brothers how to place poker. "Split the pack, do half at a time. That's how I got the hang of the Faro shuffle. Overhand is fine. In fact the messer the better. Make everyone think you can't play then you can fleece them, good and proper." He stood and then said "Chips or popcorn? Soda water, milk or orange juice?"

Date night for Luci and Mira meant Sasha was baby sitting. Nina was already asleep and later the boys would make him watch a bad movie with robots, aliens, super heroes or worst of all three. Pyotr joined him in the kitchen "I heard dad told you to choreograph something for that charity gig for the Arts Centre next week. I'm meant to be helping. I'm not going on stage, so what do you suggest?"

"Video something for a background projection or help with staging, costume and make-up? I'd have suggested working as a stage hand but you got stuck working with me."

"Yeah, stuck with the complete loser. So, where does mom hide her Hersey bars?"

Alex scoffed. "Come off it. I do not want to be on double chores for giving away state secrets. Anyway, I've got some genuine swiss chocolate in my room which is a million times better than Hersey bars. Hidden behind my iPod dock, in the box with my throwing knives. Do not touch the knives. I will know if you have. They are sharp enough to amputate limbs and I'm sure Luci counted yours before she left."

….

Alex had volunteered to drive the Pleasures to the airport on Tuesday morning, having been handed the keys to Vladimir's beautiful black Range Rover.

Edward was surprised Alex was going back down under after his short unofficial stay as a teenager. "So, Australia? Didn't Ash leave you his apartment and ill gotten gains?"

A whole portfolio inherited on his 21st birthday which was still handled by Marc Damon. "I'm going to look into it when I get there. The apartment was being used by ASIS, last I heard. The money just sitting in a bank account." Over 2 million Australian dollars of bonds and untraceable laundered money uncovered after the death of Anthony Howell, hidden in his apartment. Alex had been named as the only beneficiary in the man's will. It was like the ultimate joke really, the man had hated him and all he represented; the spawn of the great and heroic John Rider.

As they stopped in a queue of traffic, Alex flexed his neck, to see that Liz was snoozing in the back having really enjoyed her time in Manhattan. The dancer grinned and asked his one time foster father "Want to know a secret?"

"Always, I'm an investigative journalist and you provided me with the story of the century and I can't publish most of it, without causing multiple international incidents and possibly going to jail for treason."

"In the glove box is a memory stick, on it is Cossack's life story. Yassen left it for me with Misha. Misha and Yasha were cousins, their mothers were sisters. That's why we met in San Francisco. Only I had already left you and he offered me a job, being lovers was only meant to be a fringe benefit. I was working: information gathering, surveillance, body guard and then I settled into the role as all round entertainment, a nice warm and very compliant body. MI6 never officially used me as a raven. Only Misha thinks they sent me to Cornwall as just that, to get to Yasha, because I look just like dear old dad." Alex paused, "Yassen, the cold assassin, did fall in love, or obsession, with me. Sabina missed his death bed confession. That stick contains his horror story. Read it, publish it, it's a tragedy before you just dismiss him as just a psychopath. He saw his friends, family, everyone he knew die, then he was used and abused. Write about John and Ash. I don't care if there's blowback. I want closure. I know you have Bulman's notes and I left you my journal. If I do something really stupid, then you get first dibs on the exclusive."

The journalist furrowed his brow, suddenly worried at what Alex would confess, "What do you mean by stupid?"

"You know I just walk into situations and react. Games, its all games. I'm not a pawn, just a player. The trick is to never be played. Even, sex and love is a game." Alex said as the car moved off.

Edward sighed "You know, love is not like that, it is comfort and support, dynamism and strife, give and take and I do not mean that just in a physical sense. You know Dieter had you checked out back in 2005, you were so happy, settled and together with Manfred. That is love, Sasha. That is exactly what Liz and I have. Don't sell yourself short, you deserve happiness."

Alex wondered on the grim fact that being whole and happy had never been part of Ian's game plan. Driven, cold and calculating was his ideal for his nephew. He was stuck in limbo, neither operative nor normal. He often looked at lovers, partners and parents and felt detached, alone, a freak. "Doing something stupid… I fear the darkness in my soul will consume me. I… I have bad days. Work keeps me going, keeps me real. Even with Manfred, it was the fact it was everything together, it was frenetic, intense and all consuming. He slept as little as I did, we filled our hours with creating and fucking. God, that man was the best lover I have ever had. Even, Tania paled compared to him and she's one hell of a girl. I do like strong women. Shame Liz is besotted with you. She could do with a younger model."

"No joking about my wife. Every day I know I blessed with the fact she puts up with me." Edward sighed, "Sabina has yet to find Mr. Right. You're both still young and as the saying goes there are plenty of fish in the sea. You probably aren't half as picky as Sabina. Although you still fit her main criteria for future husband, having both money and being famous."

"Infamous… serious bad boy, remember. First rule of being a good father is do not let a cokehead anywhere near your daughter."

…..

Marc Damon scowled at the photos on the centre pages of the Sydney Daily News of Sasha Makarov with the Australian Consul General on the UN steps. The young dancer was speaking to the sub-committee at UNICEF on child exploitation and trafficking. The Director of CAD, the black ops division of ASIS, was being out manoeuvred by Ludmilla Schmidt. He had to hand it to her for getting the diplomats and Department of Foreign Affairs on her side. That woman should be in charge of the CIA not a merely a theatrical agent. Playing up on Sasha's dark past, making their objections for his visa look like groundless extreme prejudice.

The threat assessment posted by their allies' analysts suggested that it was likely Alex Rider, AKA Sasha Makarov, was an assassin and if so, then Breskin was likely to be controlling him. Only no one had seen or heard anything about that Russian since early 2003. The kid had been a mess after Cairo and had only dug himself into a deeper hole by running. Damon sat and wrote the memo cancelling his objections to the visa on principal but then put together the paperwork to interview MI6's dirty little secret when he arrived in Sydney. The Bank's spook squad in London had kept a close watch on Makarov and had concluded that the dancer still had close ties to the sex industry; as he had remained close to his former pimp and even closer to his former bodyguard/driver. He had been copied into the surveillance images of those liaisons.

As an operative who had survived over twelve years in Covert Operations, he had a hard outlook on fellow players, but Alex was an exception; that kid had been destroyed by the games other people had played. He had witnessed the blank acceptance of a kid who had seen his own godfather killed in front of him. Only months after the Russians had reported that Alex had been catatonic and severely psychologically damaged after witnessing the suicide of Sarov in Murmansk. He would handle this spy-dancer-assassin with kid gloves and offer full support. Hoping better late than never was the right way to play this, with understanding and openness they might be able to break a cycle of misuse and dangerous interactions.


	13. Chapter 13

The one thing Alex hated about life as a dancer was living out of a suitcase and the regular changes of base. Each year as a dancer he had toured and made occasional guest appearances, racking up his airmiles. He had no reason to complain as he'd been a nomad his entire life. The longest he'd lived anywhere was London with the four years at Cheyne Walk, between the ages of 11 and 15 and other four years split between Deptford and Chelsea, between the ages of 18 and 22. Even so, his true home was New York. The place he had been reborn as Sasha Makarov, like a phoenix rising from the embers left of Alex Rider.

He had already sent the majority of his belongings direct from Moscow to Sydney, where they would stay in storage until he got another apartment. He had decided to rent a room during his six month probationary period, with a get out clause if things did not work out for either dancer or the company. Nothing placed in storage meant much to him anyway. It could all be easily replaced. His father's medals and the few Rider heirlooms had been left in a lockup in Vauxhall, along with a few dodgier items including a stash of cash and false documents, if he needed to run to ground.

He was a rolling stone, when he had left New York in 2005, he had less than 20kg of belongings. After leaving London, it had taken him four months to ship out his furniture, art, tv and sound system to his place in Siberia. Several items had been left there, after walking out; making a clean break of all he had shared with Tania. Of all his possessions, it was his iPod and hard-drive of photographs which meant most to him. Those were always in his hand luggage. The only thing left of his years with Manfred were pieces of music and photos and videos of performances and practices. Bernd had tried to keep everything in his brother's house in Deptford, only allowing Alex to take his clothes and personal items. The twenty-one year old Alex had produced a receipt proving the hard drive was his with grim satisfaction. The only reason he had it was that his late lover had no real interest in technology beyond tapes, CDs and DVDs and really preferred to his beloved vinyl record collection.

Yesterday, Alex had bought a second hand iBook laptop and was in the process of editing together a slide show with the help of Pyotr. He had permission to use his chosen piece of rock music. His choreography was shaping up. It was good to be working hard.

….

Of all things Luci hated, it was the fact Sasha was neither home frequently nor for long enough. His short stays and long departures left a hole in their lives. Small things, like his baking, which was adored by all her children. The fact he had instilled the necessity of tidiness and sharing chores in her boys. Even so Sasha spoiled Nina atrociously. He was a breeze of energy electrifying their lives. She could not be sure if they were as important to him as he was to them. She was almost sure, because he came back. Luciana Stavenkov was shrewd enough to see the fear in Sasha's eyes; fear that this idyll would also be ripped from him. A hard life had taught him to cut and run; he did run but came back. Now, he was running off again.

Vladimir had tried to reassure her that all children left, that Aleksandr was a fine young man. They could only be proud of him for his accomplishments and support him over hardships and failures. He was strong. After many rejections he had become the dancer Maria had placed her faith in. Teaching can only take you part of the way, a start and no more; nerve, steely determination, hard work and more than a little luck were what drove you to make a career in art and theatre. In many ways the cuckoo in their family was braver and more resourceful than any person the Russian born American had ever known. Sasha who had danced on the streets, mixed circus and humour into his own pieces; while he had still been truly in love with classical dance for him to keep trying again and again to gain acceptance.

Maybe after this stint in Australia, Maria's boy would settle in his home and dance in New York.

In a strange way, the boy from London had made his own children love Russian things. Vladimir had embraced America, had never returned even to visit Russia. Sasha talked in Russian to the children, making them effortlessly bilingual; made kasha, apple sharlotka, borscht and pierogi, although Luci drew the line at Hunter's stew once she found out it actually meant hunting vermin. That had been one of those hilarious arguments that made the rounds at dinner parties of her going into the kitchen to make breakfast to find Sasha skinning a cat for their supper. Several rats were already in the stew pot at that point. Aleksandr had tried to placate her by saying he would maker her a hat from the pelt. All skills learnt from Prima Ballerina Maria Makarova.

…

At six in the morning Pytor was explaining social media to his brother from another mother, although Aleksandr was stubbornly old school at times. "You need to use FaceTime, Twitter, Facebook, Skype and Instagram. Mom goes spare when I use her phone to call you. Its more like texting and photo sharing than emails. An open dialogue for all to be connected to. You can even post videos. Look I'll set things up for you. Then you can keep in contact with us, well not dad. Maybe if you start using these things he might."

The eleven year old then stopped playing with settings on the laptop and got serious. "Your photos in your back projection… some of them, you were young and well… naked. I know Mom and dad talk about you when they think we're asleep or not listening in, but we, Grishka and me, know you had a shit childhood. Worse than dad's, he says ballet saved you both. Mom talks of her life growing up with dance lessons, her ponies, social engagements and I get that we're very lucky. Mom worries about you. That you're still getting hurt, because something bad happened over those photos in Russia."

Alex sighed and tried to explain how harsh life was, is in; when the veneer of politeness and respectability is stripped away. "Your mom has a very black and white view of life. Which is quite innocent in a way. Her mom died when she was young which gave her inner steel and made her strong, but also a little sad, always. Your dad, he has bad things in his past, he sees the authorities in Russia as the worst. Well, they're not so bad, considering. I've seen a lot worse. Nietzsche says what does not kill you makes you stronger. Maria was a little more blunt, victims are the ones without voices, the ones who died, who are in shallow graves, unloved, unmourned and forgotten. To survive, you walk away from those same situations, having witnessed death, murder, pillage, desecration, the horror of pure hatred and destruction. There is good and evil in everyone. Try to do the right thing, protect others, love when you can, fight and not give in. Sometimes even the good destroy… soldiers kill…. the good and righteous still die. Bad things happened to me, but I survived to fight another day. I'm hard, in a way I hope you never are. I have done brutal things. I use my body as a weapon. Once you have been used… sexually… without love or affection… its just another thing you can use to get something or to barter with. Just because I do these things, that's my problem. One of those situations stupid adults say do not follow my example. I started on this path by trusting and loving the wrong person. To survive loving a person with no morals, you lose yourself in the process. Hence my problems with drink and drugs. You may face similar situations, but getting high does not make those problems go away. You just have double the problems as you are addicted to shit as well as being up shit creek without a paddle. Pray you never face what I've faced. Hopefully I'd be around to protect you, Gregori and Nina." Alex did not add, he had no mercy for anyone who tried to hurt or exploit Luci's kids.

"So, yes those photos were taken of me when I was still innocent, against my will, I'd been drugged unconscious. I wasn't the only one, there were other boys at that school also affected." Alex smiled "It happened, nothing I can do or say can undo that. I'm putting those photos into the show to let everyone know that I'm fine with that, I've moved forward. I survived. Just as your dad survived, moved forward, now he's a happy and made a family. Even if he knows nothing of social media."

…

The bond haired eleven year was putting on ballet shoes and was scowling trying to hide the fact he was petrified. "How did you persuade me to do this?"

"You wanted to try acting. You get to pretend to be me, when I was sort of normal. You were game for it. Do this and the school drama club will have no problems taking you. Quick deep breaths, focus. Larry is going to be there as your foil. Knock 'em dead." Alex then ran around to his starting place for this full dress rehearsal.

As a performer, Alex never got nervous or ill in anticipation of going on stage. The whole getting in costume, putting on make-up and waiting was calming as he pulled himself into his given role, it was not him on view on stage. He was an observer pushed back in his mind as he mimed, acted and moved. Above the stage, the dancer watched the acapella group finish their recital and the stage went dark. A single spotlight then illuminated Pyotr, who was seamlessly going through positions as if at the bar, when Larry the assistant stage manager came and manhandled him off, the American boy's London accent was perfect as he pleaded to be allowed to dance. Then the back screen projection started, cycling through photos of young, exploited and abused Alex Rider from the school photos from Years 7-9 at Brookland, illicit photos taken in Paris by Miss Stellenbosch, to a group shot of all the boys at Point Blanc, only his face was the only one not obscured. A school photo taken in 2002, just after he got back from Kenya, bruised, emotionless with hard eyes. Then the photos taken by Edward in California of a sullen teenager. The next was the police shots from Miami and his cue to grip the rope and descended to the stage as the music started.

He moved and the images on the back projection changed to images of Manfred, Maria and Vladimir's careers and finally the one photo of all four of them together, Alex at sixteen; a lanky frail and skinny youth with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks , the look of a teenager ravaged by months of existing on a diet of cocaine and alcohol.

There was an eerie silence from the audience as Alex loved forward to take a bow. Pyotr edged onto the stage and broke the silence, "Its was OK wasn't it. I thought I nailed the accent. Didn't I? Dad?"

Alex then stepped forward trying to see the five spectators in the audience and said "Yeah, too biographical? Maybe I should just do my Shostakovich set piece tonight?"

Vladimir came on stage, looking devastated. "We're taking five. It was wonderful. Both of you were fantastic." The artistic director moved to hug his son and then Maria's boy. "I had forgotten about that photo. I had disapproved of her taking in a feral child as she was getting old, but you gave her a second lease of life. She said you needed space from Manfred as he was not a father figure and I was spun into her schemes." He stood back. "Do not change a thing about your piece. This is the reason for the Arts Centre. To give children such as you other options than gangs or drugs or in your case worse."

Pyotr then piped up "Which is PC, rent boy or sex worker? Sasha was a kid though? He says he's not a victim so survivor of sexual exploitation? Need to get the terminology right as I'm writing a piece on this for the school paper."


	14. Chapter 14

As official emails go, at least it was brief and to the point. After landing at Sydney on the 23rd, he was to be interviewed by ASIS regarding his past interactions with a suspected terrorist. Who the hell was calling Misha a terrorist? Mikhail was a fixer, a criminal pure and simple. Never a freedom fighter or a man of the people, the only thing guiding his path had been money and pleasure. Revenge was purely a hobby, that never got in the way of his first two life goals.

As the last hour of his long flight from JFK to Sydney approached, the passenger in Seat 6A washed and had changed from loose travel clothes into his nicest suit and a Che Guevara t-shirt. He was back seated in his luxurious chair and pondered putting on make-up. Maybe just a touch, to give the right impression of international ballet star.

The steward came forward after the plane had landed and was taxi-ing into the terminal. "Mr. Makarov, can you please remain seated as a member of Airport Security will be meeting with you."

"Yeah, sure. That's what was all agreed. Thanks." His visa dependant on passing this interview.

A short drive to a nondescript office building on the outskirts of Sydney proved CAD operated like their CIA counterparts, using temporary offices using suspect company names. They were playing nice, so no cuffs and no hood. He was not surprised to know his interviewer. He held out his hand in greeting. "Mr. Damon, I hope my visit to Australia this time will not be as eventful."

"May I introduce my colleague Dr. Kat Bellman, Alex or do you prefer Sasha?"

The ex-spy knew he could be awkward and request they call him, Mr. Makarov, but he wasn't that much of a dick. "Either's fine. I told my psychiatrist back in London that. Alex is probably better as you're not here to discuss dancing."

The woman smiled and asked "Is there a distinction between those diminutives for Alexander?"

Guessing the session of word play had started, Alex sat down. "Pyotr is the only one who gets to call me Aleksandr, but he does it to piss me off. He hates being called Petrushka as much as I hate my full name. Sasha is what most people call me. I left the name Alex behind in California many years ago. It makes sense that Marc calls me Alex because I was Alex Rider when we were working together." He looked at Marc Damon. "I'm sorry about Ash being the biggest scumbag on the planet, but I'd rather not talk about him."

The woman interceded again "Ash?"

"You have read my file. Well, the unedited and non-redacted version. Ash AKA Anthony Sean Howell, my godfather and man that murdered my parents. I should elucidate, I have no beef with him killing my dad, but killing my mother, that was just vindictive. She was not a player and was supposedly his friend. May he forever be tormented in the lowest pits of hell." He smiled as the woman's face flicked with momentary uncertainty. "Dear old dad was an assassin for SCORPIA, reporting back to MI6, so technically a good guy; but he made his choice. His wife did not."

"Technically a good guy?"

"After getting water boarded by the CIA in Cairo when MI6 were using Jack and me as bait, which all worked out so well. I can honestly say you guys suck." Alex drank from his bottle of water. "So, nice chat over with. Let's start with 20 questions. You get the same boon as the Russians, you can use as much chemical enhancement as you want, but no real torture, please."

"So the Russians did dose you with SP-117?"

"Made me as sick as a dog. Could have gotta gold medal at the puke Olympics afterwards. On a drip for a day afterwards. Nice stuff." Alex looked at the video camera recording this session. "What do you want to know about Misha?"

After three hours of going over questions, Alex felt grim even without getting drugged up. He had been left to stew as they discussed his Q&A session with the analysts and shrinks when the Australian spook came back into the room and sat down. "Your heart rate spiked during the more personal questions. Why? Your answers were detailed and very frank."

Alex again smiled sadly. "No fifteen year old is entirely sane when hormones are involved. I started sleeping with Misha because he found me attractive. I thought I was hideously repulsive, still do. Scarred freak. I auditioned for the American Ballet Theatre Company when I was seventeen for the corps de ballet. I was already junior soloist for Vladimir's dance company then. The Artistic Director called me disfigured and unwatchable because of my scars. So, Misha seduced me and I fell so hard. He was my moon and stars. He asked me to party, we partied. I let all his friends fuck me, spit roasting, taking turns. I started taking drugs so I did not give a shit. He said I was so pretty when he watched me take it." He paused with a frown on his face, "The problem with interviews is you guys never ask the right questions."

"What are the right questions?"

"Do you even know anything about Mikhail Brezkhin as in why he picked me up?"

"We have a detailed file on his activities."

"No, that's the wrong answer. Misha knew my dad, when he worked for SCORPIA. Trained him in assassination and interrogation techniques. I thought meeting him was fate, but he came looking for me. Primarily to ask about how Yassen died. Offered me a job because he knew I was SCORPIA trained, even if I did fail my first assignment. We had five glorious months as lovers and he still sold me to Juan Cortez because I broke the rules and had become a cocaine addict. He did not even have the guts to put a bullet in my skull. I heard Cortez paid him big bucks to fuck MI6's teen spy superhero. Funny, the CIA and MI6 made no offers to get me back, they hoped I died and got forgotten." Alex looked at the ceiling, "I fail your test because if Misha was here right now, I'd beg for him to take me back. I would go back to being his well used whore if he wanted me. Only this time I would not fuck it up by getting high."

Alex watched as the spook left the over emotional burned agent wallow in his past mistakes. Dr. Bellman then returned and went through a series of questions about Ian, his dancing, his thoughts on his past adventures, his other lovers and finally working for Paul McAlaster.

"Paul's great. I worked for him on and off between the ages of 18 and 22. Stripping, couple of video shoots, you know porn, never starring roles, just orgy scenes and the like, then as an escort after Manfred died. I was lonely and the guys he set me up with were all sweet. Older, not into any heavy sadism or real perves, just light bondage and submission. Everyone liked the fact I was bendy and still tight. I preferred oral sex and hand jobs with Manfred."

…..

The psychologist finished her assessment of Aleksandr Makarov, the former teenager MI6 operative and her conclusions were damning. 'Depressed, severe control issues, confirmed disassociative personality disorder. Probably heterosexual, has had positive relationships with two ballerinas in Russia. Last relationship failed after being blackmailed by Maxim Lukov. Probably left Novosibirsk to protect his this former fiancee Homosexual relationships are all related to deep self hatred and self-image issues. High probability of self harm/suicidal episodes.' Kat had interviewed most recruits to ASIS in the past five years. She gave her assessment to the Head of ASIS, "If that young man was applying for a job he'd be committed to mental health not cleared for duty. Reading between the lines, I take he was not well after the events at Dragon 9. My conclusions reflect those the Russians sent through, its only a matter of time before Sasha breaks. He should be home with his family in New York , not half way around the world following the career chosen for him by a bitter old woman. He's picked the perfect profession for his control issues as over exercising and minimal eating is the norm. Please offer him counselling, if only to keep an eye on him."

"Lets get back on track, is MI6 right, is he the Kremlin assassin?" asked the Director of ASIS over the speaker phone.

"A slim possibility only, considering he broke after the events in Cairo, any further killing would result in a full psychotic break and then Alex would disappear only to resurface for jobs and being the ghost he was trained by MI6 to be. The fact he reverted to his love of dancing and is functioning within normal parameters points to the fact whoever did the hit was using Alex as a decoy, whom the entire intelligence community have latched on to. We've been played and I think it was MI6 who played us as they have the most to gain if Alex is silenced permanently."

Marc Damon entered the interview room to let Alex know he was free to go to find the twenty-five year old asleep sprawled across the table, drooling onto his hand. The kid must be knackered to fall asleep here, then again what did he have to fear, he had been completely open with them even suggesting the link between Brezkin and MI6 and smart enough to offer them full use of truth serums to check his stories. Alex still had a smart mouth, suggesting they weren't asking the right questions. Had the Russian been under orders from MI6 to destroy their out of control teen operative, that was a truly horrifying thought.

With a snort Alex woke and wiped his hand on his trousers. "Sorry, I'm shattered. Are you wanting to ask more questions?"

"No, I was going to drive you to your hotel." The kid had booked into the Four Seasons in a Junior Suite for two nights.

"Yeah, I have a massage booked for the morning. Do a bit of sight seeing. Get acclimatised. The start work on Monday." Alex put his jacket back on. "You have my baggage and I guess you checked out the stuff I had shipped over?"

"Yeah, we need to discuss your apartment and portfolio at some point. I'll text you."

Alex pondered this "No rush, let me settle in, then we can lunch. I'm sorted until Christmas."

…..

The dynamics of the Australian Company was different from Siberia. The pecking order reminded Alex of the Bolshoi, where he had barely been tolerated by his fellow dancers, seen as a mere trophy or a circus act, never as part of the team. He had his own repertoire there and had only danced with the main company twice. Here, he was seen as an interloper, an unwelcome addition, a person not deserving his place in the starting line-up. He had no friends and no backers. He was in for a rough ride. He noted that he was down to dance in all the traditional ballets. The existing principals were down for the more contemporary pieces. Again, Sasha Makarov would have to open his own doors. He sighed taking in the very slight and petite ballerinas, he know he was weird liking tall, striking and unusual partners. Give him Alia or Tania any day. He was three inches taller than the other male soloists and principals. He was going to stand out like a sore thumb, unless restricted to solo pieces or until he got himself a true amazon.

The artistic director, Martika Lopez watched as her new addition danced on the main stage for the first time, as part of the full dress rehearsal of Sleeping Beauty. She loved his lines, his strength and the perfection of his form, he was charming and beautiful and his chosen partner was being pampered and gently coaxed by him. Russian polish from this American street kid. He stood after the run through patiently awaiting criticism as the stager, the choreographer, the director and the costume designer passed judgement.

Martika was the last to pass comment in accented English she smiled at the lead dancer, choosing to damn her with faint praise, "Clara, foot perfect as ever". Sleeping Beauty was the dancer's preferred piece. The director then spoke in Spanish, quick and fluent to the male lead. "She needs stretching to become less staid, less comfortable. You outshine her."

Alex apologised in equally fluent Castilian "Forgive me, I will adjust my performance."

"No you won't. I need you to push our established star, make her fight for the spotlight and her place as principal. Either she works with you or gets replaced. Clara is too complacent with her style, happy to keep to her comfort zone. If only Alia had been five years younger and still interested in a stage career, I would have signed her up in an instant." Martika then turned her attention to the choreographer and spoke in English "I think more fluid forms need working in. A less structured core and more emotion."

David, the choreographer, thinking her comment was for the new boy and went to pull Sasha aside.

"No David, Sasha knows both American, British and Russian styles. Ms. Bryant needs to flow. She's trying to emulate the Russian style and well, no. It needs to be softer. Let him lead for God's sake, but remember you're a free spirit not a marionette. Sasha's dear departed adopted mother beat into him never to outshine his partner. Do not think about him. Concentrate on your own performance, darling. It needs to flow, to appear effortless and like the fairy tale it is."

…

Clara made her way to her co-star's dressing room. She entered to see him naked except for a towel around his waist with his left lower leg in a bucket of ice water.

She sat completely unphased by his nudity. "Sasha, darling, I'm here to apologise. I have been a bit of a bitch, but Mitchell, my usual partner, well he feels a bit put out and he's a close friend."

Alex laughed "Don't worry, I'm used to the silent treatment. So all is forgiven. I never got on with the dancers in Moscow and well, Tania and I were like terrible twins in Novosibirsk. Christ, I miss her. There's no rule that says you have to like me. We only have to give the illusion of that on stage and well, you'd make any red blooded male crazy with desire. So, its easy to imagine us together in that story of love conquering all. Better than reality when love dies on you or runs off with a billionaire oil magnet, as in Rouble billionaire… not nice hard currency."

The woman looked at this hard and bitter loner. "Would you have stayed in Russia, if it hadn't gone sour with Titania?"

"That was my plan. I had bought her a fucking ring, Tiffany yellow diamond marquise cut. She was all for the full New York bridezilla wedding in Central Park. I was even going to get Russian citizenship. There was scope for me to start a contemporary company at the Novosibirsk theatre, doing Twarp, Bourne and maybe even Schnagel or my own pieces. In my nice future, the only thing I did not factor in was Tania wanting babies. I'm fine her getting pregnant, just not with my genetic material. I suggested adoption or the usual semen donor trick with a turkey baster. Well, that was the nail in the coffin of our relationship. She was OK with me seeing guys, I was Ok with her seeing girls. It, on paper, was perfection. She wants little ballet stars of her own, now she'll have to make do with her jumped up factory manager's suspect sperm."

There was a whole essay on a complex relationship, where both participants openly bi-sexual. "Was she trying to make you jealous to change your mind on fathering kids?"

"I'm sterile… I shoot blanks. Had myself snipped at 18. I've seen enough horror and poverty and kids getting fucked about, which I mean literally; to ever burden the world with any misbegotten progeny like myself. I did not lie when I screamed across the room in Moscow that my bitch of a birth mother should have aborted me. If you're pro-life, sorry, cause well I'm really pro-choice. My body, my choice. Its just too easy for guys to sow their wild oats and never think on the consequences. I love kids, but.. I've too much baggage courtesy of my dear old dad to ever consider another generation of my delightful family. It was the best decision I ever made walking away from his legacy and all he represented." Alex then pulled his leg out of the bucket and guessed Clara and Mitch were more than dance partners or just friends. "So enough about me ranting. Are you and Mitch serious?"

"I'd like to be. He's more of an open relationship kind of guy. I know, I should move on."

"Or make him jealous… how about a small romantic supper after the show tonight. I hear the food trucks on the harbour are great. I have yet to try fusion." Alex hoped she was up for company. He was a bit lonely and missed the buzz of his social life in Moscow, London and New York.

Clara decided she liked Sasha Makarov, that he was going to be a good friend. Quite chatty once you got him talking. "Let's dazzle Sydney's hoi polloi first. Then dim sum in Chinatown, that's my favourite." She was going to be a real princess tonight, take on board the criticism and relax into soft and flowing movement and her Aurora would channel Martha Graham.

Mitch threw the newspaper down in disgust, then went to read the international notices. Sasha Makarov's opening performance in Sydney had made it into the American, English and Russian media. Every single arts correspondent said it was the ticket to get this season. All stated Clara had never danced better than with her Russian prince. The shit was getting all the publicity the company had wanted, but not for being a bad boy or difficult. No, he worked hard and everyone on the management team loved him. Sasha was now on everyone's A list and was being invited to the parties Mitch wanted to go to. Tonight his ex-girlfriend was on TV with the Russian sap. All week the two of them had been conspiring and giggling about it. Yesterday, they were both on This Morning, holding hands and sly coy looks playing up a budding romance.

He arrived at practice to see Sasha reading an article intently, before handing his copy to the Ballet Master. Jay speed read the piece. "Lovely photos of your family Sasha, isn't Nina a sweetie. Do not give me that look, they are your family even if you are a stray."

"Make me sound like the pet dog!" the dancer exclaimed. "What about the cover shot? Mira says it makes him look distinguished."

"Vladimir Stravenkov could wear a sack and make it look designer. He looked good with a mullet, back in the day." The woman laughed. "So, Vanity Fair cover star next month, the boss will be pleased."

Scott came in and took one look at Mitch, "The green eyed monster look does not suit you. None of us should be jealous of Sasha, because I for one would not want to have walked in his shoes."

"What, the adopted son of a ballet superstar?"

"No you ninny, badly abused growing up, the thing with the paedophiles at boarding school and being a rent boy/coke addict at 15. Hard road, even though he looks harmless but he has mafia friends. The type of people that will break your legs for owing a bit of money." Scott had been at the Royal Ballet School, before his family emigrated when he was 17. He had been class mates with ten present members of the corps de ballet and two soloists in London. "Paul McAlaster in London and some mafia guy in Miami. Sasha is also well connected in Russia. His supposed father, General Alexei Sarov was an exile in Cuba. The Mirror, Mail and Sun over there ran the photos of Aleksandr and Sarov taken in 2001. He has an older half brother who died in Afghanistan. They look so alike they could have been twins. Boris Kiriyenko is practically his fairy godfather."

"Who?"

Scott looked at his friend in disgust. "God, you are an ignorant pig. First, post-communist, elected president of the Russian Federation. Big league politician, friends with Bushes and the Clintons. Pretends to be a buffoon but is a wily nasty old devil. His biography was a wonderful read. That Sarov fellow was his best friend. Sasha may be a bastard, but he's a well connected one. Just think, as soon as he surfaced in New York at 16, the Russian exiles all rallied around to protect him."

"Its all bullshit. He's just trouble. What does Clara see in him?"

Scott then twigged what the real problem was, "He's oh so very gay. The lovely ballerinas in Russia were acting as beards, darling. His boyfriend in London was a nasty bit of rough, some bouncer/bodyguard/ex-con type. He was Manfred Schangel's live-in lover for three years. The delightful Ms. C is a fag hag and is pulling your chain for being on the fence. Either you get serious or she'll move on. Word is Sasha is taking her to a very swish party tomorrow on a yacht the size of a small island, with a guest list that includes several billionaires. Just the type of man a ballerina needs." The young soloist could see his friend was not convinced. "Trust me. I'd flirt with him but he likes older men. Kiki will be game though. Let me do a bit of matchmaking, I'll get Sasha laid and then you can work your way back into Clara's life."


	15. Chapter 15

A major tour of China by the Australian Ballet to Beijing, Shanghai, Macau, Hong Kong, Nanking, Chengdu was the highlight of the summer season in 2014. Alex had thought his visa would be rejected outright, but he was to be the male principal. He was followed and the translator was definitely a spook, but he enjoyed being half tourist and half ballet star. There were no hiccups until the last date in Hong Kong, when Mitch pulled his one time nemesis aside. "Clara has texted me. Seems your beau has replaced you with a younger model. The one he's working with on his restaging of that Schnagel piece. The one you turned down dancing in. Well the twink he picked out from the auditions is now living with him at your place. I told you that creep was just using you for your money, your connections and that dream apartment of yours. He's a fucking shallow two timing bastard. If you want to catch him out, you can make the early plane tomorrow, missing out on the city tour and the party at the consulate and get home to clean house."

Alex wanted to make excuses, knowing that getting a kid fresh out of ballet school was going to be a hard slog to shape them into a dancer capable of Manfred's complex and demanding pieces. He himself had worked 16 hour days for his maestro. Only his apartment was small, bought because of the bridge view and had no rehearsal space. "Thanks for that Mitch, I'll get my flights changed."

It was noon on a Sunday. No rehearsals or class today, Darius normally slept late and never asked what Alex did on his day off. The ballet star was a keen photographer but also volunteered for two teenage dance and drama projects, one working with disadvantaged kids and the other with ex-cons and drug addicts. He normally got home at 7 and then went out to a party or out to dinner, either with friends or his handsome, but unpopular boyfriend. Darius was just like his old frenemy, Serge. He opened the door with stealth learned from playing tag with Ian. He got to the bedroom to see the illicit lovers in his bed asleep, on his Egyptian cotton sheets, used condoms on the floor.

It had been good, flawed, insubstantial but he wasn't asking for the moon and stars; was asking for digression and privacy too much. Darius was an energetic and insatiable partner. Their relationship based on a small connection through dance and their mutual love of sex. Now soured by the interloper in Alex's home and castle. The walls decorated with his photographs, his books in the living room, the place where he threw parties, cooked dinners and entertained his friends. Darius with his flat in Melbourne, barely a change of clothes here and who loved the fact darling Sasha was out 14 to sixteen hours a day, working and training. The chancer's sojourn into staging was a recent development, while his lover had gone abroad for six weeks. The young dancer was probably spending hours with Darius, but few of them dancing. Alex recognised the final year pupil at the Dance Academy. Michael Portman, a talented boy, who specialised in contemporary and modern pieces. Not quite the end of term and Darius had been an associate instructor.

He went to his wardrobe and pulled out one of his Berettas, checking it was in perfect working order, he slid in a clip and slipped off the safety. He then put his iPod on the dock and chose track 49… The Who full volume.

…..

It seemed the entire ballet company, after a rocky start had decided to play matchmaker for Sasha. He suffered through a series of blind dates, either random dinner party guests which included everyone's single friends and relations. Alex knew his only normal relationships, where dating had been involved, had been Alia and Tania. Manfred and he had just connected through dance, progressing from teacher to lover seemed to be organic and right. He honestly loved sex and had no preference on gender. Tania had been bisexual as well, and she had enjoyed sex, lots of it and more the merrier; with both of them bringing other partners in. He had tried to rekindle a friendship of sorts , with the mercurial ballerina but she had sent a message back stating that the boat had sailed. He knew he had to move on, but he was fine with hook-ups.

Darius had been another single man at a dinner party arranged by Kiki, the lighting designer. Both of them not expecting anything, but a meal and conversation. It turned out the retired dancer had worked for Manfred in LA in the late 1990's.

"Yeah, he was very intense when I met him in 2003." Alex said, agreeing with Darius statement that the German was almost impossible to satisfy.

"2003? What when you were eighteen?"

"Sixteen, three weeks after my birthday. I'd been living rough for nearly a month and was rank. He gave me a dance lesson after seeing me copying the class downstairs from the street. He fed me, put me up for a couple of weeks and then got me an audition with Maria. The rest is history."

Darius looked genuinely shocked at that reveltion, making the obvious assumption they'd been lovers from the start. "You were banging him when you were sixteen, you were jailbait man."

"We weren't lovers, in love yeah; just platonic then. I was a mess, had just run away from rehab, clean but twitchy as hell and I looked like a starved rat. Maria fed me a million calories a day for a year to get me back up to a normal height to weight ratio. If I stopped moving for a minute I was eating. No, Manfred and I didn't exchange bodily fluids until we moved in together when I was nice and legal. Fully grown as well."

….

The sleepers awoke with a start. Alex smiled, all teeth, broad, mirthless, harsh and cruel "I know, I'm home early." He drank in the shocked expressions as the pair took in the fact there was a gun in Alex's hand. "yes, its real and yes its loaded. Thirteen lucky shorts but I only need three. One for Michael, shame had such a bright future ahead of him. One for Darius, shame no one will care and one for me, I've been on borrowed time since, well since Ian died. Everyone has been waiting for me to have a psychotic break. So why disappoint."

….

The waves crashed on to the soft sand at Manly, north of Sydney. It was early, six AM and it was already warm. He sat in the sand and had been surfing for over an hour and was likely to get another hour before any others arrived to disturb his peace and quiet. He closed his eyes and thought of surfing with Sabina Pleasure in Cornwall half a lifetime ago, Sabina who was now married and had a baby girl of her own. That thought made hurt and regret spike through him. He wasn't in love, he had just been comfortable with Darius, so why did he feel so destroyed by his betrayal. He had been playing at cohabiting, giving the impression of a long term relationship. It had been easy and normal. He had been a player not a fool. He moved back out into the cool water, glad of his wetsuit. By noon it would be blisteringly hot and the beach would be packed with families.

He had lived in Sydney for two and a half years. His apartment in Millers Point was no longer his home, just an asset to be liquidated.

The blond haired surfer stared at the horizon as he paddled forward, beyond the line of breaking waves and out into the slight swell of the Pacific Ocean. When he felt the burn in his arms from the effort, he turned to face the beach, the apartment blocks were like broken teeth along the seafront. The feel of the water was calming and he had a decision to make. The call of the gulls, the distant sound of traffic, he was alive and he counted his breaths with his eyes closed recalling the first man who had wanted to be a father to him. The general with desperation and despair in his eyes, a man who's dreams of glory and for the rebirth of a great Russian Empire had failed, a man Alex had always thought of as ultimately weak and a coward. His death had been a spray of blood and gore on to the child so like his beloved son Vladimir, the child who had repudiated him as a paternal figure. Was it cowardice to want the peace that the end offered? Yassen had been calm and accepting as his life blood had spilled out. Alex had too, in London after the bullet smashed through his chest and in Miami when Juan Cortez had looked at him like a madman intent on dissecting him alive. The former spy and failure of the game of life, unclipped the diving blade attached to his right ankle, pulling the knife free he held it to his throat. Was he going to accept the blade, was he going to slice through his main artery and slip into a watery grave?

It must be after 7, because he could hear the drone of the Lifeguard's launch. The sound getting closer, time was running out. Alex pressed the blade closer and it was pushing into his skin. He could feel the trickle of warm blood flowing on to his hand. Not a spray of arterial blood, he had barely cut the surface with a knife sharp enough to decapitate.

The launch engine had cut out and Alex kept his eyes closed.

"Can you put the knife down, mate? You're giving yourself a bit of a close shave and there are sharks in these waters. They'll smell this a mile off and come running."

Alex gripped his knife tighter and spoke in the flat tones of a Londoner, rather than his usual American twang "I swam with Sharks off Cayo Esqueleto in Cuba when I was 14. I was there on holiday with my foster parents, the Gardiners… Troy and Belinda. God they sucked. I wasn't meant to be in the water. They told me to stay in the boat while they explored the Devil's Chimney. It had been nearly two hours, when I went to find them. The blood… the blood in the water had attracted a great white. I… I nearly panicked, but I made it back to the boat." Alex then lowered the blade and dropped it into the water and then rolled his board over to follow it. If he swam back and made it to shore he was a sign he was meant to go on. It wasn't suicide, but a sporting chance. Kicking hard, he stayed under as long as possible. His stroke strong and sure. His board forgotten. He knew the lifeguards would follow, then either become shark food or hospital and shrinks.

The lone figure rose up out of the surf and staggered towards his towel and his bottle of water. His feet like lead and so cold. He was shivering and teeth chattering, focused on his destination as the towel was his beacon for sleep and oblivion. He ignored the four by four as it stopped to his right, two other life guards approached. He knelt on the sand and face planted onto the towel, unconscious before the two men got to him.

…

Marc Damon picked up his work phone on the second ring. It was Sunday morning and he was on leave, but still he kept his work phone on him at all times. "Damon" was barked out, letting those disturbing him know he was pissed about getting his much needed catch up of sleep disturbed.

"Marc Damon, my name is Steve Parker of the Manly Lifeguard Station. You have been listed as next of kin for Aleksandr Ivanovich Makarov of Apartment 12a, 65 Burleigh Street, Millers Point NSW2000. Mr Makarov is on his way to the Emergency Department at Ryde Hospital, he was conscious and lucid when he was assessed by the paramedics. He had been briefly unconscious with a combination of hypothermia, blood loss and shock. Just to warn you he had a self inflicted wound to his neck."

"Right, Thanks for letting me know." The spy put the phone down. For a moment he processed the information and formulated a plan of action. The department psychologist had been spot on about the self harm and suicidal tendancies. Alex had seemed to be settling in to life down under. Had something happened during his tour of China? The Head of CAD had become a sort of a friend to Alex over the past two years. They had the occasional lunch and he had been to a couple of dinner parties at Alex's apartment. Not that he liked Alex's boyfriend much, the cocky and brash Darius just struck him as a creep.


	16. Chapter 16

In two weeks since his return from Hong Kong, Alex had gone from happy to a complete mess. The probationary agent had compiled a file detailing the kid's descent. "His apartment has been rented out to a pair of ballerinas. Still part furnished, others items are in storage, a container at the place by the airport. We found Makarov's car in Manly, looks like he's been living in it for a couple of weeks. His ex-boyfriend has a warrant out for his arrest. He skipped out on a flight to Malaysia on the 6th. He was an instructor at the Dance Academy and was in a relationship with one of his pupils. The kid's parents are well connected and are pushing for a custodial sentence even if he pleads guilty. The kid broke down during his police interview and said he was sorry and he hoped Sasha was getting decent psychiatric help, that he had threaten to kill himself. He never thought he was hurting anyone."

Damon had spoken to the hospital, to arrange for a transfer to the clinic the department used, considering Alex let slip about Skeleton Key to the lifeguards. If Alex was losing his grip and blurting out sensitive material it was best if he was somewhere safe and controlled.

….

Marc Damon arrived at work on Monday and Kat Belman was waiting for him. "Your boy agent is a mess. He is in full disassociation. Fugue amnesia. He's cut out twelve years of hurt and pain and thinks he's 15. Kind of strange with him looking at me with those shy, lustful glances. Whatever happened after Cairo really fucked him up. Why did he refuse therapy when you offered?"

Marc sat down and buzzed his assistant requesting coffee for two. "Alex knows shrinks we approve write reports for us. He can't talk to non-approved medical personnel and well, he does not trust us as far as he could throw us and by us I mean the whole, global intelligence community. He said he'd ask for help if things got bad, but it looks like he thought running and sleeping rough was coping." The Australian genuinely smiled when his coffee arrived. "I need this. I had the dubious pleasure of informing the Board of the Opera House their star turn was nutty as a fruit cake. I'm waiting for a return of the messages I left for the Stravenkov's and his hellion agent."

Kat then stood up to leave, "I'll keep you in the loop, but Alex might never find his way back from this. Oh, by the way… his trip to hospital made the morning news. Small item, luckily the journalists thought it was a surfing accident."

…

"Alexander, do you know where you are?"

"Err… hospital?"

"The date and location?"

"I guess San Francisco and beginning of September 2002. Sorry, its all a bit fuzzy. Tell Edward and Liz I'm sorry I skipped school. It was just getting to me. I felt everyone was staring, judging me. I know I'm a freak but they were all so fucking nasty about it." Alex rubbed his face, he had stubble, which was weird. "I ran because the jocks on the football team cornered me after school. I knew how to kill them with my bare hands, how to get rid of the bodies with no one seeing and how to get myself a half decent alibi. I'm a fifteen year old kid, who the fuck normally thinks like that, so off I went to be abnormal on my own, alone not hurting anyone or making people who care targets." Alex left off for good and bad guys alike.

…

Luci was looking through lists of flights, only the prices were prohibitive as she tried, in vain, to get a better deal. She picked up her mobile when it rang after one ring, expecting it to be Ludmilla, Vladimir or her father.

"Hello, Mrs Stravenkov. We have never met, but I'm an old friend of Alexander's. My name is Paul Roscoe, Alex and I went to school together in France; Point Blanc Academy in Grenoble, when we were 14. I owe him more than I can repay and I have heard he's had a mental breakdown. I'm offering you full use of my company jet and my home in Sydney, a car and a personal assistant for your time there, while Alex gets better. I know its hard, but I can even organise a nanny and tutors if you want to take your children with you."

"Thank you, I was planning on flying over tomorrow, but if you can organise it sooner that would help immensely. Poor Sasha, he's been so quiet lately. Not even returning Pyotr's messages." Luci could not help but start to cry. "I'm sorry, I should have said something but I never liked that Darius, but Sasha looked at him like he was his whole world. He always looking for love after his horrible childhood, but keeps picking guys just like his bastard uncle."

"My assistant will be there within the hour with an itinerary. She has all my details, I'm afraid I can't help personally as I'm in Berne at the moment and I have full diary, but I hope to catch up with Al when he gets back to New York."

Luci sat back and rubbed her face. Paul Roscoe, Chairman and majority shareholder or Roscoe Industries and Roscoe Communications. Sasha had mentioned boarding school, but never Paul personally. This man was willing to throw money around to help an old school friend's very unofficial family. This type of generosity did not make sense, but she was not going to refuse. She then phoned her husband, who was on tour with his dance company in California.

"All sorted, love. A friend of Sasha's has offered his private jet and his home in Sydney. Paul Roscoe of all people. So, I'll take Nina with me and my dad's coming over to supervise Grishka and Pyotr. Hopefully this time next week, Sasha will be back home and resting." Luci knew she was being extremely over optimistic. The prognosis from the clinic had been heartbreaking in its pessimism. Sasha had managed his mental health so strictly with meal plans, structured outreach activities and a holistic approach with life goals. She had to steel herself for the fact her cuckoo may have been replaced by a complete stranger.

….

"Hi, I'm Dr. Chandra, Please call me Lev….Thanks for visiting Alexander. He's settled in, Just to warn you he has amnesia, a rare complication of disassociation after a breakdown. He thinks he's 15, so don't be upset if he does not recognise or acknowledge you. Otherwise, he's charming, helpful and responding well in sessions and group. Your visits will be fully supervised as Alex needs boundaries concerning some long term security issues. He has been blurting inappropriate facts and we don't want to shock you. So, if you'll sign theses disclaimers, I'll show you through to our secure unit."

"Al, this is Martika Lopez and Clara Bryant, they've popped in to say hi and to see how you are doing."

Alex was sat in a small square of green grass surrounded by eight foot high security fencing, on a plastic picnic chair. Two more chairs were produced for the visitors.

"Err, hi, I guess you're friends of Jacks. I'm Alex, she looked after me.. well, was the housekeeper originally. I'm sorry for your loss. I miss her immensely."

Clara smiled looking confused "How's the food? Last time I was in hospital it was atrocious."

Her friend smiled and reassured her "It's OK here they let me eat sandwiches and cereal, the good full sugar stuff. I don't like cooked food much. No pizza here though or burgers, they're my favourite. Especially Whoppers with cheese and onion rings. My foster parents are a bit healthy, so I haven't eaten junk since leaving Chelsea."

Rather than lie, the older woman smiled and kept the conversation light, choosing to talk in spanish, hoping that would help Alex remember. "I am director of the Ballet Company. Graeme at the Royal Ballet sends his regards."

Alex looked like he had been kicked, "I can't talk about dancing. It's not allowed. They'll find out." He then stood up and went to the nurse. "I want to lie down. I feel sick."

Clara kept silent until she arrived at rehearsals and took one look at Scott and Mitchell and burst into tears. Martika then spoke to all of Sasha's friends and co-workers. "Aleksandr has had a full mental breakdown, and has suffered complications due to his disassociative identity disorder. The psychiastrist called it fugue amnesia and Sasha has reverted to a safe timescale, forgetting any subsequent traumatic experiences. He currently thinks its 2002 and that he is 15 and still living in California. He was extremely distressed when we brought up dancing. For such an extreme negative reaction, I cannot think what his uncle did to him to not even want discuss the subject. That man must have been beastly to a lovely boy." Martika took a deep breath to control her emotions. "If you visit, he will not recognise you and he is not the man we know and love, but the repressed and sad child he was before he ran away. I could tell he was acting with a façade in place of a normal teenage boy. I need to ring Graeme and Vladimir now. Maybe even Director Titov. I wish I had good news, but the psychiatrist stated he could bounce back tomorrow or be stuck in his delusion forever. This type of amnesia is not correctable with drugs and therapy is of no appreciable help. It' s up to Sasha to find his way back."

….

Nina clung to her mommy's hand. This place smelled funny. Her mommy was ignoring her and talking to the strange man. She looked through the open door and smiled to herself. Sasha was here. He was sick and needed cheering up. The six year old moved silently along the corridor. A nurse in nice purple scrubs smiled and already knew this was a visitor for Alex.

"Hi, Nina, isn't it? I'm Theresa. I guess you want to see Alexander?"

"Only Pyotr calls Sasha that. He hates it. It makes him scowl like this." The Nina pulled an angry face. "I have some chocolate for him. They took our cake off us at the airport. It wasn't allowed, probably cause Pyotr cooked it." The little girl then showed off the large bag of peanut M&Ms, her favourites as well because Sasha normally let her eat all of the coloured ones while he stuck to the yucky brown ones.

"Come I'll take you to his room. I'll stick round for M&Ms as well."

Alex had moved from high to low security, which was still secured by two locked doors and a check point. He was supervised but could walk around to meals and the bathroom by himself. He shared his room with a large army type, of Samoan extraction. He was reading a copy of the Count of Monte Christo and had the impression he'd already read it, but knew he hadn't. A tiny ball of energy jumped on his bed to hug him with a scream of "I missed you, Sasha!"

Alex remembered the smell of this child's hair. The fact she liked strawberries but not bananas. She wanted to be a ballerina like her mommy and could already beat Gregori in a fight, by playing dirty. "Nina? What are you doing in Sydney? Aren't you still in school?"

Then he remembered everything and his hand went to his neck. At that Nina copied him and touched the bandage softly. "Ouch" and then moved to kiss it softly, "All better, now you can come home. Mommy told me you're coming back to New York, no arguments. You need to rest and watch TV and not get hurt again. Even Grandpa says you should come home and he thinks you're weird."

….

Lucky Marianas worked for Ramon Cortez. He normally arranged transport for raw materials from the Far East back to Europe and America. Today he was looking for an Australian, one who liked kids, but not in a nice way. Lucky was a father of three, divorced but he made sure his kids were provided for and enjoyed their four weeks with him a year, so they still called him papa and rang every week. Ramon had asked him to be creative with this Australian, which meant not just beat him to death and leave him for the rats to eat.

Jails in Malaysia were grim. Open pens with no real protection. They even had the death penalty.

He picked out three kilos of product to plant on the guy who was going to India on the morning flight. The raw product worth less than three grand here but a hundred times that, when refined and cut down, on the street in London or Paris, New York or LA. He then called in the concealment to his contact at the airport. This would keep the customs seizures up and he would not lose the real courier taking the flight to Athens.


	17. Chapter 17

Alex had dreamt of his confrontation with Darius, he was now going to discuss it in group. Group therapy here was more of a challenge than the laughing fits he's had in rehab just before his sixteenth birthday. There were no rich kids here with violins accompanying their sob stories. These were undercover cops, field agents and special operations soldiers with grim tales told with stern countenance of the assuredness that life was shit, deal with it. They had listened as he had talked about his youthful misadventures and no one considered his problems trivial. The truth was they were all expecting long term problems, because deep psychological trauma had no guaranteed quick fix.

"So I pulled a gun on them, did the whole speech stating there were bullets with all our names on them, for a proper murder/suicide, only I knew I'd crossed the line from me to psycho shithead. I was no better than Julius or Sayle or any of those other guys who'd been one barrel short of a load and out for world domination and or destruction, delete as necessary. Darius was a smug bastard when I broke down and started to cry. Called me a nothing better than a cokehead whore, who'd had fame and the spotlight handed to him because of his daddy. I am so sick of people assuming Vladimir s my father, I fucking wish; but, no I have the paternal genetic material of a long dead murderer. So he was there acting like the king of the world and I just had broken, not because of him; but because of my shitty reaction." Alex then waited for the verdict of Sam, Derek, Charlie and Lorraine.

"So, he was great in bed, but had zero personality. I'd have kept him around. Great sex is great sex." Lorraine added. "You then threw them both out, I take it."

…..

The whole confrontation had been perfect for instantaneous revenge, only for the dancer to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror in his bedroom. Sasha was gone and had been replaced by the shade of cruel, malicious and homicidal Julius Grief. That fact alone had broken all the carefully constructed barriers erected between Cairo and Sydney. All masks and delusions were laid bare, he was once again Alex Rider. He was the same boy who had kept vigil by a burned out car in the desert, which smelt of smoke, cordite, petrol and charred flesh. Jack, his one hope of normal was reduced to cremated remains, murdered by his own doppelgänger.

The seventeen year old witness had watched his boyfriend's partner crumble into the broken mess of absolute despair, loss and grief. He had caused this, he had been the instrument of destruction. He fell out of love as soon as he had fallen in love with tall dark and handsome Darius as he heard than man ridicule and emasculate his former lover during his breakdown.

Alex was a snivelling wreck on the floor, but he pulled together what little remained of his dignity, to give his final ultimatum "Get out Darius, you have five minutes to clear the building. I won't kill you but I might remove your knee caps, I've see my ex, Danny do that to a few people who pissed him off. He favoured a baseball bat to smash the bones into pulp, but a bullet works just as well."

The responding quip died on the love rat's lips as he took in the look in his ex-lover's eyes, which was hard, brutal and resolute. Darius, with no thought to his present lover, scrambled into his trousers and picked up his shoes and other clothes to make a hasty exit.

Alex did not ask him to leave his keys as he would be changing the locks this afternoon and organising a professional cleaner. He was already listing what to pack and what to put in his car. He could rent this place out immediately and look for somewhere new to live, one a good distance from the city centre and any chance of crossing paths with his ex in the near future.

When the door clicked shut, Alex moved to the bathroom oblivious to the remaining witness and vomited what little was in is stomach. He was again wracked with sobs unburdening years of pain, loss, unresolved grief and loneliness. It had been minutes when there was a soft knock on the bathroom door and the forgotten interloper inquired "Mr. Makarov are you OK?" then a lengthy pause, "Can I call anyone for you?" and then finally "Should I do something with the gun on the floor to make it safe?"

Empathy and understanding was still there, Alex was not completely lost to his inner darkness. Here was a kid, so like himself, in love with a complete tosser and left high and dry when push came to shove. He stood and used the towel to wipe away the mess of snort, spittle and tears on his face. Before throwing the offending item on the floor. Everything in this place was tainted with betrayal.

The dancer stood, more exhausted than after twenty hours straight in the rehearsal room. He exited the bathroom and went straight to the gun to do a bit of sleight of hand. The real hand gun was replaced by a harmless facsimile. He threw the offending item to the kid. "It's a novelty lighter, a present last Christmas from Clara." He had been invited to her parent's ranch and impressed her rather macho father with his shooting skills, both with clays and then real hunting, when this Russian-American nancy had no qualms at killing, skinning and butchering. "Sorry I was a dick earlier and scared you. I suppose I should run you home since Darius neglected to take you with him." He looked at the boy, not really a man yet and sighed at the folly of his own stupidity. "Don't apologise, don't regret, just move forward. It's all you can do."

…

Mitch had arrived back to hear all about the debacle from Kiki, only Scott had the full story from the two other participants.

Alex said wearily "Yes, I threw him out, changed the locks, bought a new mattress and burnt the bedding and now Terri and Rachel are renting my place. I'm at the Four Seasons, but I've put a deposit down on a place in Manly, near Queenspoint. Three month contract, enough breathing space for me to reorganise myself. I move in a week after next." The principal dancer then smiled at his sort of friend, having lied about the hotel and the flat, as he was happy with his car as his temporary home, but thats what normal people would do. "The kid's parents had no idea about Darius. I got him home and kind of dropped him in it. I hope to God I didn't out him. I haven't seen him since to sort out my monumental faux pas. It's not a thing you can just send a bouquet to apologise for. 'Yeah you screwed my boyfriend but sorry I told your parents what a loser Darius was and maybe outing you in the process'."

"Yes, quite. He's not been to class since and I heard he's been off due to a family crisis."

Alex wanly smiled at that, "Yeah, the crisis being their precious baby was fucking a forty year old two timing asshole, who just happened to be the kid's teacher last term. Modern dance module for the seniors at the dance academy. It's caused a shit storm over there. Darius is likely to lose his teaching accreditation. Oh, what a shame. He should have thought about that before sticking his dick into the twink." Alex exhaled having spoken enough about his own dirty laundry, so changed the subject "So, how was the party in Hong Kong?"

….

Luci hated family therapy sessions, because she knew some other horrible revelation would be aired. Life was not fair, a lesson she learned at twelve when faced with the corpse of her mother to say goodbye to. The empty shell, devoid of all that made it human, which had driven home the absolute of gone forever. If she could she wished she could have been a true mother to Aleksandr, only he was only twelve years her junior. Born the same month her mother died. Seven years before she had met and fallen in love with Vladimir.

She sat and sipped tea and Sasha spoke of the true horror of his time at boarding school. That he had killed. Her Sasha, her cuckoo, lost and alone for so long.

Dr. Chandra was happy to sign the release forms with the assurance that Alex would be supervised at home and have intensive therapy. Luci Stravenkov had promised that for the long haul she was there to support her friend's son. He was family, there was no question of not being there for him.

"What about work? I'm still under contract until June." Alex neglected to mention he had already turned down an extension, a fact he had not even informed his agent of. He had made no plans. The blank diary had been a comfort, not retirement, just a short amount of time for him to reassess his life. Maybe move over to choreography or getting proper dance qualifications at college. Whatever, he was in limbo.

It was the psychiatrist who answered this difficult question. "The Opera House is aware of how serious your condition is. You need a stress free environment for the foreseeable future. Maybe you can return after Easter, but that is only a maybe. They have also said that it might be better to just to write off the next six months off as sick leave. Its covered by both your and their insurance. The only thing you should be worrying about is your health and well-being."

The twenty-seven year old processed this information. His attempted suicide was enough for his employers to sue him for breaking the contract. The fact the insurance company was paying out meant the lawyers had hammered out a deal on a technicality, as he had always been nuts. His actions meant he would as likely never be offered a permanent position in any company again. He was too much of a health risk. He put his head into his hands and tried to imagine what he was going to do, if he could not dance. He would do what he had done at fifteen, completely reinvent himself. He sat up and sighed. He was going back with Luci to a luxurious five bedroomed house at Darling Point owned by Paul Roscoe. A multi-million dollar home his school friend had only bought to visit Sydney and see Sasha dance twice in the last two years.

…

It was the day before they departed back to New York, when Alex, took flowers to say adieu to the Artistic Director. He felt OK to be truthful and would have welcomed a return to work, but that decision had been taken from him.

He was meeting her at the Opera House, not the rehearsal room. Nina gripped his hand as they walked up the steps of the iconic building on Sydney Harbour. Luci reduced to carrying the bouquet of fifteen dark pink roses as well as her daughter's back pack. In the foyer, Martika waited for her guests. To say goodbye to her dazzling principal, hating the fact he would dance for her no longer and with the strong possibility he would never dance on stage again.

Nina went back to her mother, suddenly shy in this strange place and with a handful of unknown adults to meet and greet. Alex saw the line of staff for his farewell and his emotions overwhelmed him, bitter at this cruel dismissal, his hard work reduced to nothing. He stroked his left wrist and the words nothing is forever. Once again he was weak and sobbing. He croaked "I'm abysmal at goodbyes." He looked at the familiar ceiling and with three sharp breaths quelled the storm of hurt, "I have loved working and creating here. My heart is breaking because I do not want to go. I'm sorry. Once again I have destroyed my future, a future I work so hard to attain. You have every right to hate me, because that is the one constant in my life. I hate myself, my stupidity, my weakness, my lack of control. I did so want to belong." He then murmured to himself "Nothing once more, everything reduced to ash and dirt."

Luci stepped forward, but it was Nina who hugged the man who was neither brother nor uncle but who was more than a friend to her mommy and daddy. "It's OK Sasha. We can both hold mommy's hands when we go back to pack. Remember, its pizza for dinner tonight, then ice cream. No horrible salad or yucky onions on the pizza. Just sausage and spicy meat." The little girl pulling him back into the present and small goals, the only ones achievable, when all the big ones have been erased.

A photo was taken of Sasha with Martika, in farewell. The woman holding the flowers which begged for forgiveness and sorrow at their abrupt parting. The print would later be framed for her office. Her dream male lead, so sad, so forlorn and so broken. The Spanish woman knew a thousand curses but none did justice to the man who had broken beautiful Sasha, she cursed Darius Clavell to eternal torment; but it was others who was responsible for breaking the dancer's mind. Her curses were on the damned souls of Ian Rider, Julius Grief and Alexei Sarov.


	18. Chapter 18

Disappointments come in threes.

He had been doing OK, attending therapy sessions, going to AA meetings with Vladimir. Trying to adhere to his eating plan, but he still skipped meals when alone. Luci was a busy mother and part time fund raiser for Vladimir's dance company, so most days she lunched with friends and potential backers. Pyotr was the most observant, watching Aleksandr's weight drop, his body slim down and noting the dark circles under his brother in all but name's eyes, from crippling insomnia. He suggested to the maid that froot loops and kaptain krunch make it onto the shopping list, both favourite snacks of the cuckoo in the Stravenkov's nest. Sasha spent most days in his room reading as TV was a communal activity best shared with the kids. After six weeks of utter boredom, Alex started rehearsals with Vladimir. He choreographed three pieces much to his friend's delight. Short and melancholy solos, reflecting his mood.

The Artistic Director had scheduled them into the May performances when the first spanner was thrown in the carefully crafted rehabilitation of Sasha Makarov. Vladimir was not in ultimate control as he had a Board of Director's to convince and the added bureaucracy and small print of the insurance companies involved. Costumes needed to be finalised, when Vladimir broke the dreadful news. If Sasha got a few guest appearances booked, maybe for charitable events, he would be viable again for the company to take on. The twenty-eight year old knew Ludmilla was of the opinion he wait until after his official sick leave was over in June before pursuing new career openings, but she did not have any confirmed bookings, just the hogwash that everyone wanted him fit and well again.

Luci told him of the opening for a choreographer at the Community Dance Centre, with interviews scheduled for the beginning of June. She whole heartedly supported his ideas for changing tack and trying something new, on a smaller scale and near home. He rejigged his resume and sent off videos of his own work and duly got an interview. Work and independence was again a possibility, Sasha was moving forward and no longer stagnating. He even looked up getting proper qualifications, via correspondence course or either night school or part time.

…..

Gregori was the petulant middle child. Pyotr at fourteen was independent, already had his mind set on acting and performance art rather than dance as a career and six year old Nina was everyone's darling and a true imp, pulling tricks and getting away with being unrepentantly mischievous. The middle child felt the most put out by the return of the mysterious Sasha, who had changed subtly since his last stay at home, from intense to quiet and sad. He was jealous that his siblings adored the interloper more than him and the fact his mother and father both seemed to put the cuckoo's needs and health first. At 12, he was exploring his own boundaries and establishing his own persona, now preferring to be called Greg, which was way more normal than Gregori or Grishka.

It was breakfast on the day of Sasha's audition, and Luci had been fussing over him for days. Mother to them all was dressing Nina, before getting ready for a full day working herself. When Grishka went to help himself to Froot Loops, only to be stopped by Pyotr. "Its oatmeal today, Greg, with honey and raisins. You're lucky Nineshka left you some."

The dark haired boy then grabbed the packet, for Sasha to say "Help yourself, just don't let Luci catch you. I've been waiting since January for her to put her foot down about the shit I'm eating."

Pyotr growled out "better sugar filled shit than nothing at all."

Then Grishka let his mouth go "Yeah, precious loony Sasha gets everything his own way. Mom doting on him, Dad spending hours with him. Keep your freaking cereal, cuckoo. Isn't it about ten years since you flew the nest.. hint … hint. Leave and go find yourself another old loser to fuck." When Gregori ran out of the kitchen, picked up his bag and left for school.

Trying to make the peace, Pyotr apologised for his shithead younger brother, "He didn't mean it. He's just blowing off hot air. You're cool, way cooler than him. Wait 'til mum hears about his homophobic rant. He'll be grounded until Christmas."

Alex then started to clear the breakfast table. "You'll be late for school, Petrushka. Your mom can't give you a lift today remember. I'm taking Nina to school because she's at the fundraiser at the Guggenheim today. Remember you're to pick up Nina tonight from ballet. I'm busy." For the first time in months there was work pencilled in on his diary. First things first, was chores, Dishes in the dishwasher, clean the surfaces, Two boxes of cereal and the leftover oatmeal in the trash. Alex got his shoes on and took his princess to school, walking the four blocks as Nina told him everything about her day, her friends and ballet class later.

Alex sat with a roomful; of properly qualified people, again he was positive his name alone, borrowed from a prima ballerina, was opening doors for him.

The Board of Interviewers were all known to Sasha, and who included the artistic director of the American Ballet Company at the Met and the main fundraiser of the Arts Centre, who was a ballet superstar who had defected from the Kirov in the early seventies and was an old friend of Maria's, with the two others being good friends of Luci's.

The opening was to tell the assembled interviewers about himself. Stuff he was sure they already knew.

"Hi, I'm Aleksandr Makarov, I've been choreographing my own pieces for eleven years. My first were performed for the Stravenkov Dance Troupe, whom I have worked for as a guest on and off for ever since. I established a small modern dance company called Troika, where we performed in street venues and arts centres in England, France and Spain. I restaged the Veshin Variations for the Bolshoi. More recently four of my works were included in fundraising events for the Australian Ballet and tutorials for the Sydney Dance Academy. I taught masterclasses on both Classical, Contemporary and modern dance techniques in Russia, London, Australia and most recently China."

The Dick from the American Ballet then stuck the knife in. "You have no formal qualifications expected for such an extensive resume. No scholarships or competitions noted. It's as if you appeared from nowhere."

"I got my high school equivalency in January 2005, my grade point average was good enough for college. I just took a different path."

"Ah yes your association with Manfred Schnagel. There were rumours your Troika works were just cut down pieces created by your former …. Associate."

"Only an idiot would think that, my style has always been more heavily influenced by Maria and Vladimir. Schnagel was unique in his approach and complexity, more Graham than classical. His last pieces only reflected my style because I was his principal and he was kind enough to create pieces that played on my strengths as a classically trained dancer. His last piece was a duality of modern, using Serge as inspiration, and contemporary reflecting his deep admiration of Glen Tetley at Stuttgart. He was also influenced by my work on the Veshin backlog, which I had worked on with Maria before she died and used one of his pieces for my audition for the Met just after her death."

"Were you not tempted to get a place at Juilliard or another accredited dance school then?"

"Frankly I'd had enough of school when I was fifteen. Vladimir suggested it, but I chose to go to live with Manfred in London instead."

"Where you did four performances in your first year, not exactly paying its own way"

"I stripped… sorry, exotic dancing was used to obtain my Equity Card. The Phoenix Club in Soho. I worked there for eighteen months until we got our first tour organised. I paid the bills and funded getting Manfred's company off the ground by shaking my booty for sick fucks." Alex was now staring the guy out before breaking eye contact and laughing "Yeah, I get it, I'm nobodies ideal for any sort of normal job. I only got the stint in Sydney because Martika was my biggest fan. I know you guys want someone with a paper trail and who won't flake out on you. Sorry for wasting your time."

As he stood up he said "Strike three, you're out."

The Russian émigré than spoke for the first time "Excuse me, but what does that mean?"

"Strike one, I fucked up being principal at Sydney, my dream job actually; Strike two, Vladimir was told he could not employ me not even as a guest artiste; Strike three I'm a jumped up stripper and failed whore who can't even get a job at an arts centre while I go to college part time to get real qualifications, which was really my plan. So, I'm out. It was good while it lasted but it's over. Time to move on as no one is calling Ludmilla about me." Alex turned on his heels and walked out whispered under his breath "Say goodbye to Sasha Makarov, back to being sad old Alex Rider. I can lie, cheat and steal to survive, just like my uncle taught me." Only he'd been taught to kill in Venice. He'd rather work in Starbucks than be another Yassen.

…

Viktor Turguniev phoned Vladimir that night to help get Maria's boy back working. One of the children answered "Hello?"

"Can I speak to Vladimir? Its Viktor, I'm ringing about Sasha."

Pyotr thought about breaking up the argument for about three seconds before answering "I'd call back if I were you. Its World War three here at the moment. Then again I might be able to help, since you're asking about Sasha. He's skipped out. Cleaned his room like he was never here. Taken his stuff, well he left Maria's jewellery for Nina. Like a six year old needs that much bling. He left me his iPod doc, I mean it's like a grands worth of German perfection and he even gave Greg his ancient laptop, had wiped it clean though. Greg was most upset to find there was no porn. Yeah, like Sasha's idea of porn is probably old naked guys. Completely gross. I haven't read the letter he left for dad, but the short and the tall is he ain't coming back. Wait Mom's screaming about that now…" The teenager listened to the argument for a moment, before returning to the telephone conversation "Gone to visit old friends. That could mean anything in Sasha's case, you know whores, pimps, dive bars, crackheads or gangsters. I just can't believe he didn't say goodbye. Fuck. It's not good here. Sorry, have to go, Nina's about to flour bomb Greg for being a grade A asshole."


	19. Chapter 19

_'trauma can ripple through time and space like a stone thrown into a vast, mirror black sea'_

The next person on Viktor's list to call list was Ludmilla Schmidt, a woman who would always drop everything for him. Even so, he would never impose on her outside of work hours unless it was life and death.

At 10 the next morning, he rang the woman who knew everyone in the ballet world. "Darling, Madam Schmidt, its Viktor. I'm driven to help Sasha get back to work. Mark was an ogre yesterday, but we had all agreed that the job at the arts centre was beneath a talent like his, he has years left as a principal or guest artiste. He should be aiming for his own company. So, I was thinking maybe some TV work or modelling, seeing as any company would justifiably have cold feet rehiring him after such a devastating breakdown."

There was a brief and entirely out of character moment of silence. "He's not well, Viktor. I mean really delicate. He's treating therapy as just ticking off boxes rather than resolving his issues. I am unhappy about him even considering work so soon after trying to cut his own throat and the subsequent episode of amnesia. Only it's a worse situation that we first thought, he left home yesterday and this morning I arrived to a hand written letter from him asking to be removed from my books as he was hanging up his dance shoes. Vladimir is beside himself, full of self-recriminations, thinking he missed something. They have informed the police, but to what end. Aleksandr is an adult of independent means. His apartment in Sydney sold for just over a million dollars, and he has nearly ten times that in savings, stocks and bonds. As you know, he did not come from the gutter, only descended to those depths in true despair. He may decide to dance under an assumed name, but that is unlikely since his letter stated he was off to visit old friends. Vladimir has contacted that journalist, Edward Pleasure and some old school friends of Aleksandr's to see if he's been in touch." Ludmilla's deepest concern was of the same as Vladimir's that by old friends, Sasha meant long dead ones.

"Oh, dear, Mark stated Aleksandr responded positively to cutting put downs, that he was tenacious and loved nothing better than proving people wrong. His approach seems to have done the opposite. Dear God, I hope his cruel words did not drive that beautiful young man to harm himself. Poor Vladimir, I must go and see him at once, if he finds out Mark Landry caused this he may do something rash."

….

Edward knew asking questions would flag this as a story. "Vladimir, I think you should go to press about this, maybe you'll get a response pretty fast and get Sasha back home or in a clinic as needed. At least you'll find out he's safe and OK. I have a friend at the New York Daily News. She'll do a very sympathetic spin. Her son also ran away. That's how we became friends."

"Her son is OK?"

"No, he's dead. Similar to the situation in Miami. Sasha survived, Mika didn't." Edward did not add that Mika had killed himself once he got home.

Edward's new book, Assassin was due out in a week, it had taken him two years to chase down corroborating facts to ground truth the involvement of John Rider, Estrov, Moscow, Malta, Malagosto, SCORPIA and close to sixty hits detailed in that disturbing diary, which listed fifteen years as a top ranking hitman. If called to account he could say it was investigation work alone that pulled the story together. Alex had approved his draft copy with a short note, stating ' _good work, glad you made Yasha out to be a complete psycho, though it means my mental health is suspect since I really sympathise and resonate with him_ '.

….

Vladimir hated dealing with the press, but it was a necessary evil. The woman, Desdemona Grosmont had been quite charming and sympathetic. There had been very little coverage in the media in December as the Opera House had issued a very short press release concerning Sasha leaving Australia due to ill health on a day of major international news from Pakistan. Edward was going to write a piece for the Guardian, in case Aleksandr had been in touch with his friends in London and the journalist would be in contact with other friends in Australia and Moscow to do the same. Hopefully, Maria's boy would turn up safe and well. His deepest fear was Sasha was already dead, meaning either literally or figuratively considering the complex mental health issues in play. Sasha had been forgotten completely for a short period in Australia. The young dancer had left his most prised possessions as gifts for the children. Him leaving Maria's precious heirlooms to his daughter was the most shocking.

…

Edward's sympathetic piece, as promised, was on the editor's desk that afternoon and was bumped from features to the front page and extended to include a full in depth back story of the ballet star's breakdown last year and serious mental health problems. All the seedier considering his ex-boyfriend had been found guilty of heroin smuggling shortly after their acrimonious breakup. The ballet star really liked dating creeps, they even had the quote from that Australian TV interview stating 'boyfriend/pimp, in my life there's been no differentiation, they are interchangeable, one and the same'. That made the editor worry that the great love story between Sasha and Manfred Schnagel had been anything but that, and had actually been just another abusive relationship to mirror all the others considering the ballet dancer's track record. He pencilled a note to a young aggressive freelance to follow that up.

…..

The courier walked up the steps to the stage door at the Bolshoi, to be shown through to the Director's assistant. The documents had been on priority 24 hour delivery from New York to Moscow. "Please sign here and here." And the packet was handed over.

Grennady saw the sender was Aleksandr Makarov and opened it immediately. Inside were two high quality journals. And a note scrawled in hastily written cyrillic block capitals on a post-it note 'Hard drive to follow, that has to clear customs. I don't need these where I'm going. All my work for your archives. Please give Vladimir full access if he wants. Otherwise my work is at your disposal. Ever your artistic servant and hopefully one time muse, Sasha.' He then looked through the two books of notes and script detailing every piece Sasha had choreographed. This was too personal a bequest for one so young. He picked up the phone to call Sasha, but the number was unavailable. He then called Ludmilla.

….

An email was sent from the New York home of Paul Roscoe to his personal mail account. 'Sorry to disturb you, Paul but Luci Stravenkov just called and left a message. Sasha has left home and she was wondering if he'd been in contact with you or any of your class mates from Point Blanc. I told her you were not due back from Japan until next week, but I did check with our the security desk downstairs and yesterday evening an Alex Rider left an enquiry about wanting to catch up with you for old times sake as he was starting a new career and he would catch you later.'

….

Pyotr had a hateful day at school. Everyone getting at him because of Sasha disappearing, which had even been an item on the local TV news at breakfast. He was of a mind never to talk to Greg again. Nina seemed to be of the same opinion as him and had stated quite loudly at breakfast that morning that Greg should go live at Grandpa's so Sasha could come back.

He walked rather than get the bus. He sauntered home to notice a guy with brown hair and glasses, wearing army surplus, the fourteen year old had already categorised him as probably a homeless veteran, who was reading the want ads section of the New York Daily News outside his apartment block. Pyotr scowled because that paper had Sasha's face plastered on the front page. The guy then spoke in Russian with the distinctive Siberian accent Sasha had cultivated while working in Russia "You should not believe everything you read. I'm not in danger. Now you know my cunning disguise, little brother. I'll pop up now and again so don't worry about me. I've already got a job. Janitor at a sleazy club, but you gotta start somewhere. Its not goodbye, just a parting of ways. I have new goals. I can look after myself. If you need me, as in life or death, here's my new mobile number; again for emergencies only. Not because Greg got the last piece of pizza. Caio, fratellino"

An hour later his frazzled parents got home with Nina. Greg was sulking in his room, despite the fact Pyotr had tried to clear the air. Vladimir then went to the refrigerator and pulled out salad and vegetables to start on dinner. Luci had already disappeared to put Nina in the bath.

The fourteen year old spoke in Russian to his father, to keep the conversation between themselves and a secret from mom. "Dad, you don't need to worry about Sasha, though I doubt he's going by that name anymore. He was waiting outside when I got home from school. He's got a shitty low paid job and is starting again, but he's fine or as fine as he can be. Its his identity disorder, Sasha is now assigned to the past. He told me that he'll keep in contact. So, that'll be as good as it gets because you could walk past him and not recognise him, 'cause I didn't until he started talking like a Siberian factory worker."

Vladimir stopped his preparation of the planned salad and gave his eldest child his compete attention, as he could order in rather than make everyone suffer his standard mid-week supper. "Tell me everything. I promise to keep it secret, but if I know I'll be able to sleep at night." If he relaxed, so would Luci as she would know their fledged cuckoo had been in touch and was not dead, which was better than not knowing, but only just.

…..

Paul noted the brief message on his mobile, the number from the United States prefix. 'If you need me call, AR'

Alex had cut ties with Paul McAlaster when he moved to Australia, but the gangster knew where he was if he needed him. The Scorpia trained assassin expected he would probably never take on another cleaning job after Moscow. Completing high profile and high risk jobs had a high pay check but also the almost certain expectation of being caught, because you made yourself a big target for the police and other security agencies. That financier had made too many enemies, one of them had been Dieter Sprintz. The Italian had backed a blackmail plot, to use the Grief clone of the German billionaire's son. In the attempt to blackmail a man who appeared soft and unconnected with the criminal underworld, the man had invoked the wrath of two billionaires. While Dieter appeared unconnected to any information gathering, Paul Roscoe had set up both hits. The kidnapper himself had been cut to pieces and the clone buried alive in an isolated location of the transcontinental gas pipeline from Russia to France. Alex's back-up plan had always been to use Misha and Maxim as a smoke screen. Alex knew all about psychological programming, because Ian had been the one to fuck him up in the first place, trying to create the perfect spy. Only his work had failed to install any patriotism in his nephew and Jack had tried to mother him as a normal boy, which had thwarted the whole plan in the end.

The other clones had already met with accidents to prevent them falling under the control of any would be blackmailers, kidnappers or terrorists. Time had already dealt the usefulness of several out a Cassian, Tom and Nick had chosen careers of no use to anyone in power and their parents were no longer active players, despite their considerable wealth.

…

Alex was sat on the floor; his head held in his hands. He was meant to be cleaning the stage ahead of rehearsals today. New acts, not dancing or theatre or real singing, but drag artists miming to pop songs. His attempt to move on with his life was suffocating him, he needed to get out of his own head. Dance was more than a job, more than an addiction, it was like breathing. He again yearned to create; to be able to concentrate completely on form, rhythm and line. The two hours daily he spend doing class exercises and in the gym were not scratching this itch. He was in withdrawal from his previous life.

Lola watched her old friend Lexi, who had disappeared off abroad for ten years. He had turning up out of the blue three weeks ago to beg a job and then she had found out he was effectively homeless and staying in a shitty hostel. She had rented out her tiny spare room and woken the next morning to find the faucet in the kitchen fixed, the place spotlessly clean and her laundry done.

Whatever had happened between then and now had deeply affected the gentle soul, she was at a loss on how to help.


End file.
